The Second Origin
by friendlyneighborhoodfairy
Summary: Rogue is just another homeless kid at the bottom of the local hierarchy. Fleeing bullying, he runs into traffickers, and while fighting back, he meets a kidnapped boy. Sting is lighthearted, kind…and attractive. Too attractive for someone like Rogue. Rogue sets about trying to rescue Sting, finding he can't resist his charismatic pull. {Stingue. Updates 1-3 days.}
1. Lost

**The Second Origin**

**Trigger warning: **for bullying, including homophobic/misogynistic slurs and unwanted sexual advances.

**1: Lost**

For Rogue, the problem was everything. The way he talked, the way he moved, the space he occupied. One day he was "too feminine" and the next he was "overcompensating." His hair was too long; he stared at other boys too much; his red eyes were creepy. Shadow magic was strange and evil, and dragons didn't exist.

Rogue was just a problem to other people.

Mostly they jeered at him across the guildhall—the other kids waiting to be old enough to join Phantom Lord. Master Jose only let those sixteen and older into the guild to maintain its reputation, but the young wizards who dreamt of joining could sit in the hall and stare in awe at their betters.

Rogue was always staring at Gajeel Redfox. Nobody ever told _him_ dragons weren't real: Gajeel would beat their face into a new shape. He had respect, and power. Rogue wanted to be like that one day.

Untouchable.

But Rogue never drew Gajeel's attention to himself. Especially after he witnessed what Gajeel did to those who bothered him. Rogue was more comfortable in shadow anyway, out of sight, a wallflower.

Unlike most people, darkness never scared Rogue: it was out in the open that things went wrong.

The first time a kid shoved him for being different, for instance. Middle of the guildhall, middle of the day. Rogue shoved back, someone else pushed him from behind, and then Rogue was getting knocked around this way and that.

Before he could process what was happening, the kids moved on, laughing.

Gajeel glanced over at the boys' noise. His eyes locked on Rogue for a split second, lip curling down in a bored sneer.

Rogue couldn't have been more humiliated.

Later, Rogue found the other kids' leader and challenged him to a fight in the back alley.

Followed by all his friends, the boy came. He had a cocky grin before they started, squaring off with fists raised, ringed by jeerers telling Rogue he smelled, he dressed like a freak, his hair was an eyesore.

Ignoring them, Rogue aimed, lunged, and punched the gang's leader in the jaw. The boy flew backward into the wall.

He got up to retaliate, but Rogue hit him again, and a third time, cornering him against the brick. The young Dragon Slayer knew how to throw a punch: those bruises would hurt for days.

But as Rogue tried to step away, a fist crashed into his shoulder. The other boys mobbed him: someone took him to the ground, where someone else kicked him so hard he heard the bones in his arm break. Kicks dug into his stomach, his nose, his legs.

Rogue curled in a ball with his hands over his face.

It finally ended, the kids leaving Rogue to huddle wordlessly in the alley cradling his wounds.

From then on, they pushed him whenever they saw him. They'd be crossing the hall, always in their little group, and pass Rogue on the way, surrounding him for a brief moment and shoving him hard before continuing on. It was never an all-out fight—never enough to get reprimanded: just a shove, or a foot slipping out to trip him.

If anyone else saw, the boys claimed it was an accident. They smiled innocently. Nobody knew.

Nobody ever _saw_ Rogue. As a person, he was invisible, not worth the time.

Though he still lurked in the Phantom guildhall religiously watching the Iron Dragon, he was smarter about avoiding the gazes of his peers. Sinking into corners, going in and out through back doors, blending into the scenery. Rogue was an alley kid, and fitting in like a chameleon came with the territory.

When the other kids _did_ notice him and brought their inevitable tortures, he never pushed back, afraid to escalate things. To be accused of causing the ruckus. _It was his fault for existing._ His fault for being this way.

He knew if he didn't fight back, it couldn't get any worse than the insults and bruises. If he didn't fight back, he couldn't get in trouble.

And he wouldn't have to fear losing control. Skiadrum always taught him to be calm and let go of his ego if he wanted to be one with the shadows and use their power. When he'd tried to without control once, the shadows had devoured him. He couldn't see and couldn't breathe and couldn't hear, even though he knew he was screaming. There was pain, but he had no body. Finally the darkness spat him out, cut up and bleeding, and he remembered nothing until waking up curled between Skiadrum's claws with the dragon's breath ghosting over his face.

It wasn't til later he found out his father had ripped him out of the shadows by force. Skiadrum had almost seemed scared when he told Rogue this. Rogue never again acted out of uncontrolled rage.

Even though he had plenty to spare.

Anger was his constant friend, present when he woke up behind a convenient dustbin and present when he left Phantom Lord in the evening with the day's taunts curling through his mind.

_Redeyes. Stupid. Clumsy. Demonic. Do you see the way he stares at that older boy? Homo. Troublemaker. Nasty. He wants people to put their dicks in his mouth._

One day, he would be strong like Gajeel Redfox. He wouldn't need anyone to see him, or save him, or stand up for him. He'd be a force to be reckoned with.

No one would treat him like this. He'd live alone and scare off anyone who came near.

Rogue faded ever more into the background, became a master at slipping away from people. His time at Phantom Lord became something fraught with anxiety; it was okay he couldn't find enough food most days, because he couldn't eat much anyway.

Secretly, he began following Phantom's older mages out on missions. It got him out of the city and took him to new places where he could steal without being recognized.

Watching the guild wizards, he memorized every move. The timing of every attack. Later, alone in the woods, he practiced on trees and bushes, wanting to be like them, to be lauded for helping the weak and saving whole villages.

As he wandered back from one such training session, sun fading, exhilaration had him smiling for once, despite the hunger gnawing at his insides. He'd tried something new with his magic and succeeded—first try.

He almost dared to hope he'd gotten better in the years since Skiadrum's passing. He could hardly remember those days, but this was proof he'd improved at least a little.

The smell tickled his senses with familiarity and his head jerked up. _Them._ Only a few meters ahead—he'd been too distracted to notice.

Glancing around, Rogue sought an escape route, but they'd snuck around and surrounded him, the whole group of eight or nine kids. He couldn't punch his way out.

He prayed he didn't have to. Prayed they only taunted him and moved on. If he took it without fighting, they might not try to hit him.

"You're not going to ask what we want?" the leader asked.

"Don't bother. He never talks back," another kid answered.

"He's too stupid to understand."

A few laughs.

Fists shaking, Rogue tried to keep his hands at his side. They outnumbered him. He could not. Could not start a fight. Back here in the dirty streets of Oak Towns's ghetto, nobody would come if he screamed.

"Rooogue," the leader said, singsong. "Sounds like a freak name. Like your parents didn't love you; they knew you'd turn out the loser type, and here you are. Living up to your name, _Rogue._"

Titters of laughter. Rogue didn't look up, couldn't meet those brown eyes. He was shaking too much. Breathing deep, he watched their feet, waiting for one to lunge.

"Rogue, Rogue."

"Sounds kind of like a girl's name."

More laughs.

"I bet he's actually a girl."

"Yeah, I bet _she_ only dresses like a loser-boy because _she_ doesn't know any better."

Someone stepped toward him. Rogue's spine tingled, body shaking. But nobody took a swing at him. They were still just talking.

"That would explain the weird clothes. Always in black," their leader sneered.

"You don't have fashion sense either, Yuichi," one of the kids pointed out.

"That's because I'm not a fag!" Yuichi took a step, everyone else following. They were closing in now, closer, inside Rogue's space. Warning constricted over his skin. "Wanna see if Rogue is really a boy?"

A few laughs, but nobody answered. Rogue chanced a look up through his hair: Yuichi was looking around the circle with his lazy grin.

"I mean, it's easy to check," Yuichi said.

"Yeah," someone spoke up, catching on. "Yeah, better check, Yuichi."

As the herd affirmed him, Yuichi snickered and moved closer. Rogue was ready to duck. Everything in his body was stiff with fear. His brain seemed to process every moment at high-speed.

He was so focused on Yuichi, he didn't noticed the arms grabbing him from behind. Nails dug into his neck and arm and Rogue struggled, staying silent on instinct from so many years avoiding attention. His thrashing earned him a free arm, but someone was already leaning forward. Reaching.

He had a horrible moment registering what they were about to do.

Yuichi seized his junk through the front of his pants and yanked hard.

Rogue shouted as agony burst over him. Going weak in his captor's arms, his body begged him to _make it stop, gods, please_. He was only vaguely aware of someone slipping a hand down the back of his pants to pinch his buttocks. His balls felt like they'd been ripped in half.

The hands let go and Rogue curled in on himself, falling to the ground dry-heaving. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Pulsing, throbbing, the world white with pain.

"Guess you are just a fag," Yuichi said above him. "Too bad you're not a girl. I like girls, you know? You wouldn't be a total loss."

Rogue swallowed down the cries in his throat. He was in too much agony to do anything. Best not to cry. Don't let them see him cry. They would end him if they saw any sign of emotion.

"Next time," he heard someone mutter, "let's get him hard before we do that."

"Ew, you think I'm some kind of homo? I'm not touching another guy's junk that way."

"You don't have to touch him. He's a fag: he's probably hard just staring at us. Probably had all sorts of dark, creepy dreams about you, Yuichi."

"That's disgusting!" Yuichi spat back.

There was a scuffle, the half-hearted kind, but it was followed by a vicious kick to Rogue's side.

Rogue gasped. He was lighter than air. If it was possible to be outside one's body, then that's where he was. He couldn't feel anymore. There was so much pain that his mind shut down and the only thought in his head was the detached question of whether he would fall unconscious before the pain in his balls shredded him into tiny pieces.

A few more lazy kicks knocked him back and forth, one jarring his head against a dustbin. They laughed at the crashing sound it made, joked about his hollow head.

Then they were leaving, voices receding down the alley as Rogue's ragged breaths sawed in and out.

"Yuichi-san," someone said, and the honorific made Rogue sneer, "where are we going for food tonight?"

"First," Yuichi replied, "we find Master Jose and tell him we found the punk who tore down the sigil."

Tore down the… _No!_ Gods, no. Someone had vandalized Phantom Lord last week and ripped their symbol off the front of the guildhall. Who was that stupid, Rogue had no clue. Gajeel had terrorized the town looking for the culprit.

If they told Master Jose it was Rogue's doing, he wouldn't just be barred from joining Phantom Lord: Gajeel Redfox would personally beat the shit out of him. Rogue wasn't sure he would survive. Usually he was confident his magic could keep him out of trouble, but against another Dragon Slayer, older and more skilled and, well, _Gajeel_, he might as well slit his own throat. Master Jose might even _order_ Gajeel to kill him. A lesson to others.

It wasn't like anyone cared about him.

Rogue wished he'd never tumbled out of whatever womb abandoned him to this world. But survival was an instinct. He wouldn't let them turn Gajeel on him.

"No," he croaked, as the boys' footsteps reached the end of the alley. He could not let them get away. As loudly as his raw throat could, he shouted, "Come back—fuckers!"

The footsteps halted.

It took everything he had to move past the pain in his genitals and stand. It made him feel sick and dizzy and he would've vomited if he'd eaten lately. Dragging himself up against the brick wall, he glared at Yuichi with all the venom he could muster.

What did Rogue have? Nothing. Nothing to lose.

"Look at this cocksucker, begging for more," Yuichi said, ambling back to him as the others crowded around the alley mouth.

Rogue's nose was bleeding, but the real problem was that one of his ankles was twisted. He wouldn't be able to stand on his own.

Hands on the wall, Rogue felt the shape of something long and angular behind him and grabbed hold. A stick of wood.

"You look awful," Yuichi said, stopping a couple meters away. "Although I guess that's nothing new."

Laughter. Rogue knew the sound of those jeers by heart.

"You really want more of this?" Yuichi asked, forming a fist. His expression was regretful, like he was offering Rogue a chance and Yuichi didn't want to hurt him.

"Just try, bitch," Rogue coughed, with far more strength than he had.

With an incredulous chuckle, Yuichi lunged.

Rogue brought the piece of wood around and drove it between Yuichi's legs.

The boy shrieked, shattering the silence into agonized sound. Crashing sideways, Yuichi curled around himself just as Rogue had done, howling and cradling himself. While he writhed, the other kids started down the alley.

Mindless fury taking over, Rogue hefted his stick.

He tripped the first one and got the next in the head. The piece of wood was like any attack: stay loose, aim, control your body.

On the other hand, that assumed your body was fully-functioning. When a third kid's fist swung for his face, Rogue barely managed to bash his side. On his next swing, he put magic behind it despite the risks. With the strength of shadows, he managed to knock the kid hard into the dustbin. The kid stayed down.

The world was spinning around him now. His body couldn't handle this: he was too beat up already, blood leaking from his face, his balls screeching at every move.

"You little shit." There were two—no, three?—closing in together. "You think it's funny to get other guys in the nuts? It gets your little faggoty prick off?"

"You are never living this down, Rogue. Never. I hope you know that."

The boy's repulsed sneer embedded itself in Rogue's brain: the face of hatred.

Rogue tried to swing his makeshift sword, but had it wrenched from his hands instead. That jerked him from the wall and he fell to his knees. His arms flew up—knowing what came next. He caught a glimpse of his stick coming for his head and tried to ward off the blow, but the wood crashed into him and pushed jet-black pain through his face.

It knifed through the bridge of his nose; searing pain exploded through his right eye and his nose pressed back into his brain. Liquid slid over his tongue. Breathing became difficult, like his airways were collapsing. Rogue was yelling and the pain wasn't stopping.

He had to get away. Had to, or they would kill him.

When a fist collided with his skull, Rogue dropped into the shadows.

Disappearing felt even easier than normal: his body _wanted_ to sink down and vanish. Peace settled over him as he flew away down the alley. Maybe this was what dying felt like. Soaring and tranquility. It reminded him of flying tucked up between Skiadrum's horns.

As he slid over the stony ground, the boys vanished from his senses. He would go far, far away. The shadows would devour him. He would join Skiadrum. Dragon souls and human souls surely went to the same place at the end. Maybe death _was_ the shadows; maybe he'd be here forever, unified with his element.

Sleep crept into his brain like the inexorable march of twilight. He was exhausted from pain. He didn't even have a proper body and everything hurt. The world looked flatter than it should: he couldn't see out of one eye. Terrifying sensations pulsed in his broken nose, threatening to split his face in two.

The shadows, like everything else in his life, rejected him. They spat him out under an unfamiliar hedge, and Rogue surveyed the narrow, deserted street where he lay. Nothing but rubbish and debris and one other homeless kid further down, curled asleep under the bushes. They looked grimy and malnourished, just like him, which meant they'd have no interest in him.

Greenery poked his ear and pricked his skin as he crawled under the hedge, but he was too worn down to care. At least the plants provided shelter.

In the stillness, the weight of his limbs dragged at him. He could feel the blood sliding down his face. Warm; viscous. His nose pushed backward into his head, and this was bad, bad.

He didn't remember anything more.

* * *

**A/N:** The Dragon Slayers don't get motion sickness because they're currently too young.

Please leave a comment; it keeps me going. ^_^


	2. Weeping

**2: Weeping**

Rogue woke up to a deafening scream.

It sounded like someone was shrieking in his ear. It was only his good hearing though: the other kid was shrieking some ways down the hedge. Peeking through his one good eye, he could see two tall silhouettes in the dawn light bending over the girl and trying to grab her arms.

"Here, hands," one grunted, and Rogue saw rope being coiled around the thrashing wrists. "Stop squirming, kid. We're not going to hurt you."

"Overmuch," the other interrupted.

"Overmuch," the first agreed. "Can't have the merchandise looking all weak and beat up. Laborers need healthy bones. So you'll be just fine, you hear me? Stop—moving!"

They shook the girl, cuffing her head, making her resistance go limp. With a grunt, one heaved the kid onto a shoulder.

Rogue held perfectly still. Kidnappings like this weren't unusual. Street kids were perfect fodder for underground industries seeking free labor.

The one carrying the girl started moving toward the end of the lane.

"Fucking kids," the other sighed, following. "This is why I never fuck men. I won't let some dickwad get me pregnant."

As soon as they turned the corner, Rogue took a deep breath. If he could move, he should get away from here.

His lungs were clearer than before; his ribs stung, but nothing seemed broken. Pushing up with swollen fingers, he noted most of him hurt less, settling into a low, throbbing ache, but he was dizzy. His gut was acid and hunger, and pain radiated from his right eye.

Gently, he tried to pull the eyelid open, but puss glued it shut. Dried blood covered his face, and when he touched his nose—very, very gently—the blood there was wet.

Trying not to groan too loud, he stood, gripping the hedge for support. His twisted ankle hurt like hell.

He had to get away. What happened to that girl was awful, and it could happen to him all too easily. Her capture wasn't his business or his fight. In the underworld, you ran. Everyone knew that and everyone accepted it.

He could hardly fight for himself, let alone somebody else.

But as he took a step down the dirty street, shame squeezed his chest. This wasn't what a wizard ought to do. It wasn't what a _guild_ wizard would do. Skiadrum's voice was in his head, telling him what his magic was for: _Dragon Slayers protect. We gave you our magic so you could be the defenders your kind needed._

_I'm giving you my magic because I believe in you, Rogue. You will be a good, kind, and strong protector one day._

A tear slid down Rogue's face. His father wasn't here anymore. Nobody was here to reprimand him about the honor of shadow magic. Nobody cared what happened to him. Whether he shamed his father's name. _Nobody would know. _

But Rogue would know. He had nothing but his own memories of living as Skiadrum's son—nothing else in his little, broken life had any value left. If he didn't honor the dragons, who would? And what reason would he have for living anymore?

He needed to find food and better shelter and maybe medicinal care—but a steel fist gripped his heart: he was the last one. This was his purpose: if not to protect, then why else had life spat him into this ghetto? Hell, if helping someone got him killed, all the better.

He didn't want to keep living like this anyway.

Determination cleared his head. With every part of his body aching, Rogue let gravity pull him into the shadows. Moving became easier there. Focused. All his senses opened and he could smell exactly where the traffickers had gone.

Through the darkness, Rogue followed.

* * *

Their scent went into a shop but came out again. It was getting fresher.

He caught up to them in an empty, dawn-shadowed street a few blocks from the main street. Their scent was thick and excited, easily tracked.

Rogue pulled power into himself, wary of how his wounds slowed him down, and burst out of the shadows before the two reached the end of the block.

Without waiting, he unleashed a whip of shadow magic.

They were a woman and a man, the latter carrying a large case surely holding their human cargo. When Rogue lashed out, the woman dodged defensively and pulled her own whip out.

"Take the kid!" she called to her partner, spreading her feet in a stance.

The man backed away.

The woman's whip clinked like a chain, and when she cracked it in Rogue's direction, the metal links stretched unnaturally, moving much faster than they should. _Magic._

Blasting out with his own power, Rogue narrowly avoided her attack. He slithered sideways using the shadows as cover and struck out in multiple directions, keeping both traffickers hemmed in—the man unable to escape.

The woman's whip cracked again and he barely retracted into the shadows in time.

Whenever he emerged, his burning ankle protested his weight, but he was able to ignore that pain with the flush of battle taking over him; he found it more frustrating that the limb was swollen and cumbersome. His punches were slow, and he wasn't inflicting as much damage as he could.

No matter how focused he was, he couldn't ignore his ragged hunger. That pain did _not_ vanish under the adrenaline, the acidic ache clawing at him even harder with the heightened senses of the shadows.

He was getting the hang of the woman's magic and managed to swipe her off her feet, but she struck back before he could deliver another blow.

Shit. He needed to end this fight soon.

As he emerged behind the woman, aiming for her head, sharpness constricted around his injured leg.

The woman twisted around, calculating, tugging on her whip. With a yell, Rogue slipped from the metallic grasp before it could tighten and punched her in the stomach.

"Well, aren't you a little rogue?" she coughed.

Her choice of words made Rogue recoil.

She was neither angry nor smiling—simply focused, a true fighter. They were close quarters now, but that didn't hinder her whip, which shortened magically. Rogue barely had time to brace for the hit.

Chain links bit into his crossed arms, closing around his hands in a cold embrace. He tried to rip free again, but found himself jerked off his feet instead. When he stumbled to the ground, the uneven stones dug into the parts of his legs which weren't already bruised, layering on more pain.

Panicked, Rogue dissolved, hands merging with shadow first to escape the whip. Had to get away. This wasn't going to end well.

He wasn't fast enough with the rest of his body to avoid the punch to the face.

In the shadows' embrace, he screamed, voiceless, silent, entirely alone. Body-less as he was, he could still feel every single splintered nerve across the bridge of his nose. It felt like his nose had shattered. Was he even able to breathe?

Hunger ate him from the inside out, and he knew he would've vomited if he were still standing on solid earth. Too much pain. He couldn't go anymore. Couldn't.

"Come on," the woman shouted to her partner. The traffickers ran to the end of the road, turning onto the causeway.

Rogue was barely able to slide over to a wall before popping back out of the shadows.

Leaning his head against the wall, he focused on breathing. A headache pierced the parts of his skull which weren't injured, and his muscles were stiff and overtaxed. Blood covered every visible patch of skin, but he ignored it, not really wanting to face the truth of how beat up he was—focusing instead on his face.

Blood was dripping into his mouth, bitter and thick; he had to spit several mouthfuls before he could breathe deep.

The wetness on his face wasn't cold like when he woke up with dew collected on his skin, and somehow that made it almost funny. The warm, slithering ribbons tickled like spiders as they coursed his cheeks.

Careful probing made him shout—he couldn't help it. Touching his nose felt like ripping his face off. His fingers came away a terrible bright red, and when he finally worked up the nerve to probe the wound again, he ascertained there was a long slice across the bridge of his nose, the bones beneath almost certainly broken.

At some point he'd opened his injured eye for the sake of vision, and while it still functioned, the slash across his nose stretched all the way over to it. Blood seeped from the bottom lid and put excruciating pressure on his eyeball, but right now everything was excruciating.

He needed help, but that wasn't going to happen.

The second thing he needed was food.

Finding a grocer at the end of the street, he smashed a window and grabbed the nearest items before limping away as fast as he could. It was early morning: less likely to get caught.

Aching, he followed the still-present scent of his prey. He was tired and so, so beaten, but this was what Skiadrum would've wanted. To save another person's life.

This small act of justice was all Rogue had left. Everything else had been torn away by cruel hands—by people who laughed when they saw others bleeding.

Rogue laughed thickly as he hobbled. At this rate, he'd probably die before he could free the girl. Wounds and hunger and too little sleep would catch up to him and strangle the remaining life out of him. Over half a lifetime of bare survival had turned him into this: a messed-up, underfed loser.

Maybe some part of him wanted it all to end.

Nothing in his life really mattered anymore. There was no one left to worry whether he lived or died.

He'd gotten so used to it, he didn't even feel like crying.

The traffickers' scent led him to the Oak Town station and a train which had nearly finished boarding. He slipped around the stile, so easy when you were a small, dirty kid nobody wanted to look at, and into the rearmost train car, locking himself in the tiny toilet to hide.

The blurry mirror was enough to show him his face was _bad_. He pressed tissue against his nose and shoveled stolen food in his mouth to stifle his cry. When the train began to sway, he ate and listened, keen ears hearing the breaths and sighs of the handful of passengers. He finished his breakfast, feeling again like vomiting (this time from overeating); cleaned his wounds as best he could; and slid quietly into a rear seat in the train car.

A tiny bit of luck was with him: the traffickers weren't in this one. His eyes automatically shifted across people's luggage, seeking child-sized cases and finding none. That was good.

Sleep pulled at him—dragged him down despite the lurking danger. He couldn't muster up any more concern. As his eyes drifted shut, he prayed the shifting of the train would wake him when they reached the next stop. He prayed he'd be able to get himself and the girl to safety.

He prayed, but he was pretty sure the Goddess couldn't hear him. He was the prey whom gods delighted in beating the shit out of.


	3. Finding

_**Summary:**_ _An injured Rogue__ meets Sting..._

* * *

**3: Finding**

Rogue woke up feeling so much better he almost couldn't remember what happened. But as he sat up, his hand, which had been holding tissues to his face, snagged on his wound and everything rushed back with a swirl of pain.

They'd beaten him pretty completely—just one woman, and one with not very creative magic, either.

She'd called him a little rogue, and the words twisted through his head with disgust. He'd always felt uncomfortable about his name, about the rebellion it intimated. All he'd wanted was a stable life, but no, he was Rogue, fighting his way through life and never knowing where he'd sleep the next night.

He didn't want to be a Rogue.

With the cuts on his legs and torso scabbed over and the swelling in his ankle gone down, he gently tugged at the bloody wad he still clasped to his face. It tore a little as he pulled, picking away bits of the half-formed scab: the wound was still wet. Rogue let his hair fall across his face. No need to _look_ like a rogue.

Still, he wasn't as tired or hungry as usual. It was enough to make him feel a tiny bit better about life. Maybe something good would happen today.

The realistic side of Rogue snorted at that. That would be a first.

When the train pulled in at the next town, Rogue was already waiting, hanging between cars where he could watch those who disembarked.

He frowned when he saw the woman and her partner exit, with no box. _The girl was still on the train. _But the two walked out the stiles and disappeared, their footsteps vanishing.

Spying the whole stop, Rogue waited for them to come back, or for someone else to appear who looked sketchy and cruel, but only two groups boarded—a family of five and two elderly women. Then they were off again, leaving Rogue confused as the train began to roll.

Before it could pick up too much speed, he climbed the ladder and hurried along the tops of the cars, finding the single freight car and lowering himself down to smash the door lock with his magic. His ankle began hurting again as he swung inside the car.

All kinds of luggage filled the space and he started opening things indiscriminately, sucking in a breath when he broke open a box to find a kid inside. She was a different girl from the one he'd come for, staring at him with wide eyes for a second before she realized he was not her trafficker.

She sprang from the box with fists swinging.

"Stop!" Rogue cried, blocking a hit with his bruised arm and wincing at the pain. "You have to get out of here!"

She looked around, panting, dark eyes taking in the toppled bags, broken crates, and debris of goods.

"Just go," he said. "Go!"

Because that's how this worked: on the streets, you were either running or dead.

The girl sprinted for the door.

He followed to make sure she was alright, seeing her spring recklessly away from the train. Shit. He hoped she hadn't broken any bones.

Plus now he had to worry about anyone in the cars seeing her as the train rolled by.

Rogue worked fast, striking out with thin lines of shadow to pierce multiple locks and hinges at once. Two trunks sprang open, the children inside more disoriented than the first. He led them to the door and threw them off one at a time, using his magic to push them rearward—it would slow down their momentum before they hit the ground, at least.

The last box big enough to have anyone in it yielded the girl he'd originally sought.

"Wh-Who are you?" she stuttered, the first kid to speak to him.

"Never mind, just go."

"But—"

Grabbing her arm, he practically dragged her to the car door, preparing to throw her out.

"This'll hurt," he warned.

"It's okay." She looked him in the eyes. "Thank you."

"Don't get caught again." And with that, he shoved her out and away. He waited until he saw her get up and start running.

Something dislodged in his chest. Guilt coming undone, a sense of relief. Just like that, he found himself crying.

"Don't get caught," he whispered.

He was prepared to jump off himself now, leaving the freight car in shambles and the traffickers without their product. But he paused in the doorway, out of breath and aching, not remembering when the pain had started thudding through his head again.

Shutting his eyes and sliding down onto the floor of the car, he saw against his closed lids the faces of the woman and man.

Their trafficking ring would go out and capture more kids nobody wanted. It was all circular, and Rogue couldn't fight it, would never truly win. Even this victory was bitter with the knowledge of how small it was: four lives saved.

He wondered if there were other traffickers still on the train, or other cargo in the passenger cars.

He'd saved four. To each of them, the rescue was monumental, but in the grand scheme of things...pitiful.

If he'd had any desire for heroism, he might've considered waiting until the train stopped and people came for the cargo, hoping to take out as many of them as he could, but he knew better. Against a group, he stood no chance as he was now. He'd be caught, his magic shackled, and his body put to work somewhere where death was expected within a year.

He couldn't fight a whole gang. The most he could do was search the train for other children. And almost certainly get caught and killed if there were other traffickers aboard.

So weak.

With a sigh, he pulled himself up and swung out over the coupling, reaching for the door of the next car. Freedom, lush and green, slid by as he entered the passenger car.

He couldn't believe he was doing this.

The cars yielded sparse and sleepy people and no oversized luggage. He hoped he didn't find anyone. As he entered the second-to-last car, Rogue glanced over its single occupant and noticed how the man's eyes sharpened on him.

On habit, Rogue's gaze skipped down to the large case on the floor by the man's seat. Large. Child-sized.

The man rose with deliberate speed, still fixed on Rogue, and Rogue didn't wait.

The man wasn't expecting a black cloud of magic to fire his way, but he pulled out a pair of jitte and struck back—and crashed Rogue's magic through a window.

Shit. More magic-powered weaponry.

Adrenaline shot through Rogue's system, but it wouldn't hold him up for long. Sinking into the floor, he rushed forward and emerged from the shadows inside of the man's swing, delivering a blow to the man's chin that thrust his head back before he could retaliate.

As the man stumbled back, Rogue added a kick to the groin. The man went down and Rogue slammed a vicious foot into his nose without waiting to see whether he was already unconscious. He would be now.

With pain thrumming in his body, Rogue hurried to the trunk and sliced through the locks.

The boy inside…was _breathtaking._

That was the first wild thing that flew through Rogue's mind as he made sense of golden curls and bleary eyes squinting up.

The boy was also covered in blood.

With a strangled yell, the boy tried to lunge, only to fall drunkenly back into the box and hit his head before Rogue could catch him. Though clearly drugged, the boy still attempted to fight, clawing at Rogue's shirt before Rogue caught the boy's bloody wrists.

Unnerved, Rogue surveyed him, taking in the bloody arms and feeling cold metal against his palms. Manacles closed around both of the boy's wrists, but no chain connected them. Rogue was confused until he saw, among the red streaks, magic sealing stones embedded in them. _A mage_. That explained why the kid wasn't with the others in the freight car—_and_ under physical guard.

Rogue loosened his grip and the boy sagged. Deep cuts sliced the boy's forearms into a geometric work of art all the way past his elbows.

"Who…are you?" the boy slurred, and Rogue looked up into beautiful, startling blue eyes. Despite the drugs, the pale gaze was steady.

Rogue swallowed.

"You should get out of here," Rogue managed.

The kid glanced to the unconscious man on the floor.

"Knocked him out?"

"Yes."

"Did you...come to rescue me?"

Rogue's breath stuck in his throat. He didn't know how to answer. He wasn't pretending to be a hero, but here he was holding this boy, heart beating fast, mind surging with _must get the boy out, it wouldn't be safe much longer, they needed go…_

Instead of replying in words, Rogue used his magic to slice through the sealing stones and shackles. The boy jerked, face flashing through shock to tears. A tremulous ball of light appeared above his palm. In that brief moment bathed in white, Rogue thought he looked more beautiful than anything else in the world.

"Th-Thank you," the boy whispered, tears falling. "Thank you."

"Let's get out of here," Rogue said.

Gripping the boy by his upper arms where there were no lacerations, Rogue hefted him up. The boy leaned into Rogue, nearly toppling both of them, so Rogue wrapped an arm around the boy's waist and supported his weight—and noted the kid had flesh on him, not bony and starved like Rogue.

Someone cared about him. Someone fed him.

Rogue did his best to carry the boy, weak and tired though Rogue was. After he flung the door open and caught his breath, Rogue looked down at the coupling between the cars, at tracks rushing by, at the green blur of landscape. Freedom.

They just needed to survive the jump.

"What's your name?" Rogue asked.

"S-Sting."

"Sting," Rogue said softly, "hold onto me."

"Why?" Sting asked stubbornly.

Peeved, Rogue turned to look at him, eyebrow raised—and discovered they were exactly the same height. Rogue blinked quickly, Sting's face very close to his own. Sting appeared to have trouble focusing on him from the few centimeters' distance thanks to the drugs. Seeing the bleary-eyed boy struggling to stay alert, yet with such determination burning in him all the same, softened Rogue.

"This is going to hurt," Rogue said, looping Sting's arm around his neck. "Please hold on tight."

It was a good thing Sting was drugged. Rogue clasped Sting to his chest and Sting turned his face into Rogue's neck like a creature seeking sun; Rogue was pleasantly mortified by the intimacy. Twisting into position, Rogue took one last look at the wild frizz of blonde hair, Sting's eyes closed in weariness, sharp mouth firmed.

Rogue gripped Sting tightly and leapt backward off the train.

* * *

Falling into the shadows was supposed to help with the impact. Rogue couldn't slow their momentum like he'd done for the other children, but letting the force pull them down into the shadows should've dispersed a lot of it.

And it did. But Rogue still felt the impact like falling backward onto granite. It burst through his eyeballs in white sparks, leaving him numb and unable to move. His thoughts were sluggish. Sting slammed into him before they submerged, and Rogue had the vaguely comforting thought that at least he'd broken the beautiful boy's fall.

But it was only a wisp of a thought, forgotten as consciousness fled Rogue's body.


	4. Keeping

**4: Keeping**

Rogue felt amazingly dizzy. It took a while for him to fully wake up because his stomach was overwhelming him with signals and the wound across his nose throbbed in aggravation. Untangling the messages from his gut—

He flipped onto his side and retched.

When nothing came up, he realized it'd probably been too long since he ate. He couldn't remember what he last stole. The food after his battle with the kidnappers?

Traffickers. The train. The fighting.

_Aren't you a little rogue?_ He would never live those words down—never erase them from his skull. Like they were printed on him in filth; but then, everything about Rogue was dirty.

Something about that triggered Rogue's memory of the gorgeous boy with the ball of light. They'd jumped off the train together and—oh god, where was Sting?

Was he okay? What was going on, and _why_ was Rogue so dizzy?

The rest of his senses were catching up now: repetitive clacking noises; a light sway of motion; the hard surface under his side; and the last vestiges of a really good smell.

When he cracked his eyes open to search for Sting, his dizziness improved rather than worsening: trees whizzed by windows above him and he realized the movement wasn't in his head. He was on a train again, lying on the floor, all alone.

No sign of the boy Sting.

Rogue deflated. He'd lost him. Found an angel, saved his life, and lost him not five minutes after. Didn't even know who he was except for a first name.

Now he was alone again. Always.

Filled with unwanted aches, Rogue dragged himself to his feet using the wall. He could've stood with more dignity, but this was the least painful method, and he didn't care about looking pathetic. He'd had enough of pain. And trains. And waking up alone.

Shuffling to the end of the car, he managed to get the door open despite slick, sweaty fingers—and nearly fell onto the tracks when the train rattled.

Rogue took one look at the rushing view and knew there was no way he was getting off until the train stopped. Unless he wanted to die. Maybe later.

Stumbling into the next car, he evaded the passengers' view and wedged himself in a walled-off corner under a luggage rack. He'd be relatively safe until they came to the next station. He didn't know where they were going, or what he was going to do. But his nose pulsed and loneliness was crushing. Rogue hunkered down with his self-pity for the long wait.

He was just dropping off into a semi-watchful doze when the car door slammed open next to him.

Rogue jerked. Though his heart thundered in alarm, nobody could see him in his hiding spot unless they sidled over to the luggage area and looked down. His adrenaline needed to calm the fuck down already. His body was going to shatter if this kept up.

Rogue closed his eyes, wanting to cry. He couldn't live like this anymore.

The harsh breaths warned him too late. As he looked up, a figure dropped to their knees and grabbed Rogue's shoulders.

"Found you," Sting gasped in relief.

Rogue knew his heart must've stopped, his head had cracked, because the angel was _back_. The wonderful smell came with him.

Rogue wasn't alone.

Losing muscle tone, he collapsed into the other boy's hands as heat pressed against his eyeballs. While his mind tried to understand why, how, another part of him noticed Sting was shirtless. And muscled. A fighter.

But mostly Rogue was filled with the ache of someone seeing him. Noticing him, and not wanting to punch him. Looking for him, coming back for him.

Rogue was about to cry: could feel the tears and was certain this was about to be the most embarrassing moment of his life.

But his body did him one better. Before he could say a word of warning, Rogue threw up on the floor.

"Oh gods," Sting gasped, gripping Rogue tighter. "Shit, I knew I shouldn't have left you; do you have a concussion? Please don't have a concussion, you hit your head so hard, I was scared when you didn't wake up, I'm so sorry I left you, I'm sorry, I didn't want to but I…"

Sting's words washed over him, sentences running together too fast for Rogue to make total sense of them. The tone comforted him. Sting's voice was like something out of his past, like catching scent of Skiadrum, something which spoke _home_ to his spirit and made his body relax. He could've listened to Sting all day.

Still talking, Sting coaxed Rogue from his cubby and onto his feet. This time Rogue leaned on Sting, grateful for the support. The angel was helping him. Helping _him._ Sting wasn't too disgusted to help him.

While Sting half-led, half-carried Rogue back to the empty traincar, Rogue sighed happily.

"…Anyway, I got us some food." Sting reached into a pocket and pulled out a dozen squished rice balls.

"Eat," Sting insisted, shoving food into Rogue's hands as they sat. "I'm starving. You're skinnier than me, so I figured you'd be famished."

Rogue blushed at the mention of his weight and took an enormous bite. Energy seeped back into him as his stomach calmed.

"Why are we on a train?" Rogue asked after several minutes of silence—apparently eating was one of the few things which shut Sting up. Rogue was almost disappointed by the quiet, but he was also impressed: Sting could put away as much food as Rogue did, and Rogue always had an enormous appetite.

"You went unconscious when we landed," Sting said eventually between mouthfuls. "We were in the middle of nowhere and I got scared, because I didn't know how far we were from help or if you were okay or… So I managed to get us back on the train."

Sting being scared for his wellbeing made sparks burst inside Rogue.

"Back on—wait, this is the _same train_?" Rogue exclaimed. "How?"

Sting's cheeks turned pink.

"I don't exactly remember since I was kinda still out of it, but…I used my magic and managed to give us enough momentum to catch up again. We sort of flew through the open car door and slammed into the floor. I'm sorry if you got bruised." Sting looked down, murmuring, "I tried to take all the force of the fall."

Mention of injuries had Rogue zero in on Sting's arms. They were wrapped in what he realized were the remains of Sting's shirt, brown streaks beginning to show through.

"Are you okay?" Rogue asked.

Sting followed his eyes down.

"I'll heal," he said with confidence. Worry rushed back as he looked at Rogue. "But you smacked your head really hard on the ground and then you sicked up back there…"

"I'm okay."

"Vomiting usually means it's a concussion," Sting insisted, fear catching in his voice. "Are you dizzy? Have you blacked out since waking up? Are you feeling weird at all?"

Rogue had to inhale.

"I'm fine. I…it's…I threw up because I was hungry," he admitted. Sting still looked like he was about to leap over and grab Rogue's shoulders again, which was both exhilarating and terrifying. "Eating helped. I'm not going to faint, I swear. Th-Thanks, Sting."

"It's the least I can do for my rescuer."

Sting gave him a bashful half-smile, and Rogue wondered if Sting had any expression had _didn't_ look cute. Rogue was never going to stop blushing.

"So, you know my name," Sting said, "but what's yours?"

"R—"

Rogue's tongue tripped and he coughed.

He could be better.

"Raios," he said.

"Raios," Sting repeated, rolling the word around like chocolate. "Thank you for saving me, Raios."

"You're welcome," Raios-not-Rogue stammered, ducking down to hide behind his hair.

The action drew Sting's attention even _more_ to his face. Sting frowned and reached for him.

The fingers that touched Raios's chin were gentle, nudging his head up, but Raios yanked out of his grip in an absolute panic. With eyes wide and breaths coming quickly, he was grateful when Sting didn't comment, simply letting his hand fall.

"The bridge of your nose…there's a gash."

Raios's palm flew up to cover it. "From earlier."

"From helping me?" Sting asked, eyes sad.

"No," Raios said honestly. "Someone else…it doesn't matter."

"Maybe that's why you were dizzy. It looks deep, Raios."

"It's already healing," Raios said, reusing Sting's excuse. He shoved more food in his mouth. "How long was I out?"

"About an hour."

Raios choked. That explained why Sting was so chipper and aware: the drugs must've worn off while Raios lay around being useless. Useless and watched over by a breathtaking boy who was concerned with Raios's wellbeing.

"That's why I was scared," Sting said, looking down at his hands. "You saved me and got hurt. When I came back with food after only a few minutes and you were _gone_, I thought I'd lost you or you'd been taken or something, so I followed your scen—"

Raios's gasp cut him off.

"Where's the man? The one who was guarding you?"

Sting wore a sly smile. "He's not a problem. I found him when we landed back on the train: he was still out and there was nobody around, so I _may_ have thrown him out through the broken window."

Raios startled. "You threw him off a moving train?"

"He'll survive," Sting said defensively—as if Raios cared; he was more amazed happy-go-lucky Sting had the ability to be so violent. "I tried something like you did and used my magic to slow him down before he hit the ground."

_Magic._ Raios was intensely curious what kind it was. He could smell hints of a peppery, tingling aroma and remembered the brilliant ball of light. Something beautiful and powerful.

"So," Sting said, "what's our plan?"

Raios blinked. "Plan?"

_Our?_

"We're on a train. We could go anywhere."

"We should probably get off before we reach the next station," Raios said, though his stomach knotted up at the idea of enduring that pain again. "People might be waiting. Coming for the _cargo_." He spat the word in disgust.

"I don't think we should," Sting said, looking away, clearly uncomfortable with disagreement. "You were amazing—I don't know what you did: everything went dark for a second and the landing didn't hurt at all—but I don't want you getting injured again."

Raios didn't argue; he really hadn't wanted to.

"We can get off at the next stop," Sting said. "You can sneak off the back of the train and nobody will see you."

"What will you do?"

Biting his lip, Sting looked sideways at Raios. Fire burned in his eyes, bright and hot.

"I'm going to wait until people come for me. I'm going to hurt them bad enough they never lay hands on a kid again."

"I'm coming with you," Raios said, without hesitation, without even thinking about it: he knew he would follow Sting anywhere. He wanted to be warmed by the fire Sting had. He wanted that confident, reckless determination. He would cover Sting's back. He didn't know how to be a leader, but he knew how to protect.

Sting nodded once. They stared at each other for a long moment, Raios's pulse speeding up at the attentiveness in those blue eyes.

"One problem," Raios realized. "Probably nobody is coming: your guard would've brought you in."

"Shit. You're right."

"It was a good plan," Raios said.

Sting shrugged.

Then out of nowhere, Sting put his head on Raios's shoulder. Raios stopped breathing. He wanted to pull away—touch scared him, made him think of the boys and their sticks and their terrible hands in terrible places. But he didn't want to make Sting think he didn't like him—or worse, that Raios was afraid of him. So when Sting scooted closer on the bench and sighed, Raios stayed very, very still.

"I'm tired," Sting yawned. "Is it okay if I sleep?"

"Of course."

Raios slid his thumb down Sting's arm for a brief moment. Joy curdled in his belly, sharp, taut, terrifying. His heart started beating again when he pulled his hand back, while Sting made no motion to show he'd noticed anything, readjusting and letting out a sleepy sigh.

Suddenly, Sting mumbled. "It'll be okay."

Raios's shoulders relaxed.

* * *

When grey smudges of a city appeared on the horizon, Raios nudged Sting awake and they prepared to disembark. As they munched on more rice balls, Raios felt significantly better, the cut across his face no longer throbbing. The swelling had gone down enough that opening his eye was no longer difficult.

The train pulled up at a station and the boys went to the door, only to run back and slide hastily under benches when a steward entered.

Ready to dive into the shadows if need be, Raios watched the black shoes march in, pause, and shift as if looking around. He met Sting's eyes across the aisle and Sting shrugged.

When the steward left, door slamming, they waited a good thirty seconds before rolling out of their hiding spots.

"Guess we're lucky nobody came in here earlier," Sting said, running a hand through his hair so the curls stood on end. (He'd looked adorable waking up, blonde frizz haloing his flushed features.) "Let's get out of here, yeah?"

"Yeah." Raios returned his smile, not reacting at first when Sting grabbed his hand. By the time blood started pounding in his cheeks, Sting had turned away and was pulling him toward the door. Oblivious, thank the Goddess, to the effect his hand-holding had on Raios. Raios would keep it that way.

Raios smelled people a moment before the door crashed open.

Sting jerked back just in time, slamming into Raios and narrowly avoiding getting his nose cracked open. Tripping backward down the aisle, Raios managed to catch Sting against his chest and hold on tightly until they were both standing again, by which point a woman and man had clambered inside the car.

In that tight space, Raios knew this was going to get ugly, knew this was bad, knew the good times were about to come to an end. He held onto Sting a tiny bit longer than necessary, wanting to feel that warm, human body against his. Then Sting extricated himself and Raios regretfully let him go.

The man and woman stared at them. Knowing.

"Where's Takai?" The woman growled, taking a step forward. She had an imposing demeanor, shoulders thick with muscle and scattered armor assimilated into her wardrobe. The man with her was lean, ropey, and mean-looking.

"I threw him out the fucking window," Sting said, and threw a punch.

While Sting tackled the woman, Raios lunged at the man. Wiry though he was, the man was fast, getting a hand around Raios's ankle and clamping down like a vice. Shifting in mid-air, Raios turned the kick into a slash to the chest, black magic sweeping out from his hand to cut the man's skin.

Letting go, the man retreated and Raios got his footing.

With another slice, Raios left a scratch perpendicular to the first, dodging the runes that flew his way. The 'X' on the man's abdomen was already filling in red on his clothes as Raios punched. The man grabbed him again, but Raios used the momentum and proximity to head-butt the man in the chin.

Stunned, the man's hold loosened, but Raios's face tore open once more and he cried out. Blood slid down his cheek and he felt his eye scream. He jerked away while he could, but the man's scrabbling fingers caught his wrist for a second, twisting down—

Raios's arm crashed into the edge of a seatback and snapped. He heard it—felt it throughout his body, like an echo of all the pain inside him. All the broken things, the lonely things. Raios was just a small, scared animal.

As these thoughts wrapped around him, he saw Sting out of the corner of his eye, fighting hard, shouting as he scored a hit.

This—helping this boy, freeing those children, fighting the people who did this—was something Skiadrum would've been proud of. This was the point of pain: justice. Raios's despair dissolved into anger and energy pushed through him.

He was exactly where he needed to be.

He inhaled, and a soundless, shadowy roar sent his opponent crashing across the train car. The man cracked hard against the wall and slid down, motionless.

Panting and cradling his broken arm, Raios turned his back. He would help Sting make the world beautiful.

Sting and the woman both had blood dripping from scratches on cheek and fist. The woman had a bloody nose. As Raios turned, Sting skittered off balance from getting in a good punch, and fire danced out from the woman's fingers, aiming straight for him.

Though Sting dodged, the flames lashed his arm and his bandages ignited. With a painful shout, he punched with both fists in a twisting gesture, white light shooting for the woman. The move was eerily familiar, a twin to one Raios used, and he knew the power it packed.

"Not again, little bitch," the woman yelled, raising an arm.

An arm couldn't deflect a hit like that—

The shot ricocheted off the woman's armor, forcing Sting to leap out of the way. In that short space, she threw flames again, and this time they were sticky and wrapped around him.

As the fire sheathed Sting's injured arms, Sting's breath flew out in a quiet wheeze that was far worse than a scream would've been.

Raios let loose another roar, shadows crashing over the woman. Though her armor deflected some of it, the attack slid over her bare neck and hands. She screeched, slapping at her skin but not letting go of the cord of fire that stretched from her hands to Sting's arms.

He had to get Sting out of her grasp. Raios dove for him, leaping into the shadows and zooming around to the wall at Sting's side, but he stopped, frozen there in the darkness as he watched Sting inhale and let out a breath of his own.

The roar blasted straight through the woman's armor in a flash of pure white light, slicing her magic, sending her flying to the floor. For a moment, Sting was lit up white with the glow of his magic, and Raios choked in awe.

Sting was an angelic spirit, stunning and holy and precious and pure. He was something Raios could never aspire to, never even touch: only stare at from afar. Raios was a demon—red eyes, dark magic; lurking. Everything around him was sharp and hard; but Sting was set apart from him, apart from all that darkness.

As the woman fell to the floor, Raios could smell it all, from the sizzling grit of draconic power, the hot blood, the smoky char of Sting's wounds, and the beautiful, addicting fragrance he'd been smelling ever since he met Sting—Sting's own scent, unique and delectable in a way Raios could not have described if he had a million years.

"Raios?" Sting croaked, swaying. "You can come out now."

One of Sting's legs gave way as Raios emerged from the wall, Raios swooping under Sting's arm and holding him up, broken wrist be damned. He was careful not to touch the burned mess of Sting's forearms.

Sting gave him a bloody, beaming smile and Raios returned it, feeling all the warmth people must hold when they had a family.

"Wow," Raios said, words failing him under that blue stare. He wiped blood away from his nose and eye so he could see better, and the view of Sting just took his breath away. "W-Wow."

Sting smiled wider.

"Let's get off," Raios suggested. He was full of a million questions, starting with, _you're a Dragon Slayer too?!_

Holding each other tighter, they hobbled off the train, Raios contemplating how comfortable he'd gotten with Sting's touch. Only above the waist—whenever their hips bumped, a jolt of nerves squirmed in his belly.

At the sight of a platform attendant, he dropped into the shadows clutching Sting to his side until he got them to a secluded corner. When they popped out, he staggered and Sting grabbed his hand, and Raios's arm screamed murder.

"Shh," Sting soothed, bending over him. "Quiet; there you go. Let me see."

Raios stopped hissing and instead focused on clamping his lips shut as Sting very gently inspected his arm.

"Dislocated wrist," Sting said.

"Shitfuck," Raios growled.

"Better than broken. Let me check the other—"

When Raios raised his good arm, Sting gave a sudden, vicious twist to the dislocated one. _Pop._ Pain seized every muscle, Raios biting his free hand until he tasted blood, refusing to scream.

"I'm sorry. I had to do that," Sting said. "It's easier if you don't tense up in anticipation."

Raios nodded while his breath sawed in and out through his ripped-up nose.

"Let me see that." Sting pulled Raios's other hand from between his teeth. "Damn."

Any other time, Raios would've startled, or maybe smiled, at Sting massaging his bitten hand. But all he could think about was that his wrist actually did feel better.

"Let's get out of here and then we can deal with injuries," Sting said.

But he made no move to rise.

Unsticking his jaw, Raios asked, "You can't walk either, can you?"

Sting began to shake his head, then stopped.

"I-I can." he stammered. "I have to."

"I'll get us out of here," Raios interrupted.

Against Sting's protests, Raios leaned forward, wrapped Sting in his arms, and then they were flying through darkness again, Raios's home turf, where moving was easier and senses were enhanced…and his pain all the sharper.

They twisted through streets which stretched on and on, a giant city sprawling around them.

The throbbing of Rogue's wounds grew intense, until the darkness creeping over him wasn't just shadows anymore. He _should not_ pass out while they were here, or bad shit would happen.

Raios brought them out into an alley between two respectable buildings. While he leaned his head against the wall waiting for the blackout to clear from his vision, Sting curled up next to him with both arms held gingerly to his chest.

"It's chilly," Raios panted after a minute. "Take my jacket…"

"I need to clean my arms first." Sting's voice was low, too controlled. The courage that came just before you broke.

Raios looked around.

"That's a resort across the street."

"That doesn't help us."

"There are always empty rooms. I'll go check it out from the shadows and come back for you. We won't get caught if we sleep in an unbooked room: you and I will both hear anyone coming long before they find us."

_We'll both hear…_ Sting twisted to look up at him. There was a lot of knowing in that look, so many unspoken affirmations.

"You can't," Sting said, swirling an unburnt finger around Raios's knee. "You're as worn out as I am."

"I can." Raios lifted his chin stubbornly. "I just need a quick minute to catch my breath. Do you have any more of those rice balls?"

"Just one."

Sting tried to reach into his pocket, wincing at every touch. Finally Raios took over, trying not to think about the fact that his palm was sliding over Sting's thigh.

"Take all of it," Sting said, nodding encouragingly.

"We'll split it."

"I'm not hungry."

"You can save it for later," Raios contended. "This might be all we eat for dinner."

Sting's eyes slid up and down Raios's body in uncertainty, and Raios knew Sting thought he was too skinny. _Always too something, Rogue. Too skinny, too eager, too ugly, too different._

Raios ripped the rice ball in half with more vigor than necessary, some of the okaka filling landing on the ground. Handing Sting the better half, he snatched the fallen offering and ate it, proceeding to scarf down the rest of the scant meal. It did absolutely nothing to fill him, but the black was gone from the edges of his vision.

Sting wrapped his half back up and leaned against the stone wall with eyes closed.

"I'll be back soon," Raios promised. Seeing Sting's drawn expression, Raios caressed his shoulder in timid comfort. "I will come back, Sting. I won't leave you."

"I know," Sting said, blinking to look up at him.

Raios very nearly kissed his forehead before standing, shaking his head a moment later. Sentimentality had a hold of him; he was clearly too tired and needed to stop now before he did something unforgivable. Like kiss him.

"Back soon," he said, and slid into the shadows.

* * *

**A/N:** So I guess in this AU, Dragon Slayers can't smell their own scent. I know that's not how scents work scientifically, but just go with it. It's magic. xD


	5. Found

**A/N: **I lost count of days, so here's two chapters.

* * *

**5: Found**

Sting, Raios learned, was not ashamed of crying. Not in the slightest.

Tears slid down his cheeks while Raios washed his burned arms and bandaged them with strips ripped off a resort yukata. There were tears in the corners of Sting's eyes again as he dealt with Raios's face—an action Raios allowed only after passing out while trying to wash the wound himself. The sound of him crashing to the floor brought Sting running, and Sting now had him reclining on the futon as he worked. Sting was a little paranoid sometimes. Luckily it was kind of cute.

After they were done, curled up on the tiny futon next to each other in a numb haze, Sting began to cry silently.

"Sting," Raios said gently, rolling to face him. "What's the matter?"

"I'm just tired." Sting sniffed, another tear tracking down his cheek. "So tired."

The heavy way he said it told Raios it wasn't just physical.

Scouring around for something happy, Raios said, "So, your magic."

Wiping his face, Sting shifted so they were staring at each other across the pillow. Silence stretched.

"You're a Dragon Slayer," Raios said.

"So are you."

Raios nodded. "Shadow. You?"

"Holy," Sting said. A spark of something snapped in Raios's brain—was that a type he'd known about? "For as long as I can remember. Started learning when I was really young."

"Same."

Sting leaned in, sparkling with questions.

"Can you eat your magic?"

Raios made a face. "Not mine, but other shadows."

"That's what I mean. Me too! Although finding holy magic to scarf down is hard; it's so rare. I bet it's easier for you."

"Yeah." Raios smiled, shy under Sting's infectious grin. "And your senses are better than other people's?"

"Tell me about it," Sting chortled. "It comes in handy, like now, but sometimes it's the devil. I've heard some things I wish I didn't."

Raios bit his lip, stifling the laughter in his throat. The parks where he slept were a favorite for young lovers and their desperate, inexperienced fucking.

"So, um." Sting looked down, bashful. "Can you smell my scent?"

"Yes," Raios husked, throat closing around a burst of emotion.

"What do I smell like?"

Sting was worrying his lip with a fang (he had the same long canines—how had Raios not noticed?), ignorant of Raios's pounding heart. Or maybe not: he was a Dragon Slayer. At least he didn't know _why_ Raios's pulse was so rapid.

"You smell _good_." Raios coughed. "Like sunlight on a shrine. Colors and the wind. A spicy dish, something with a lot of flavor. Purity."

Sting stared at him in awe. "That's really poetic."

"Um." Raios was certain his face was fuchsia. "What do I smell like?"

Sting's smile grew thoughtful.

"You smell cool and subtle. There's something like the smell of trees on the cusp of changing seasons, and it's mellow, almost empty sometimes, like I can lie down and rest in it." He coughed. "That's not as eloquent as you were."

"No, it was…" Raios had never smelled himself before; any information was new and interesting. _Subtle. Changing seasons._ He liked that.

But… _Empty._

Raios was always lacking somewhere. He shouldn't have expected anything more, but it still made disappointment crunch in his stomach. For _him,_ Sting's scent was exciting; some stupid part of him had dared to hope Sting would feel the same.

Raios's gut grumbled in protest.

Wordless, Sting got up and brought Raios the wrapped half of the rice ball. Raios was about to argue, but Sting cut him off, not meeting his eyes.

"I found another one while you were gone. Guess I'd counted wrong. I ate the whole thing, so this is yours. Take it."

After a moment, Raios accepted and began to eat. Sting settled back on the futon, both of them pretending Sting hadn't just lied.

"We fought traffickers today," Raios murmured around a mouthful.

"And won."

"Together."

A pause.

"You saved me," Sting said.

A lump filled Raios's throat. Sting made it sound like it hadn't been a giant fluke—Raios witnessing that kidnapping, following, noticing the locked case. Raios was the lucky one. He was the one who opened that box and found Sting.

"I don't care why you were there," Sting said, reading his face. "You rescued me. You fought that guy and got me out. You did a good thing today, Raios. An amazing thing."

"_We_ did a good thing," Raios corrected. "Together."

And it was true. They'd taken out people who shouldn't be walking the streets; even when the folks recovered, Raios doubted they'd be the same. With luck, they'd be injured enough they couldn't work again, or traumatized enough—especially the one thrown off the train—they never returned to the job.

_Skiadrum would be proud._

The thought wrapped him in a thick embrace and made old, barely-remembered feelings glow in his chest. His father had been honored. Raios did the duty of a Dragon Slayer. He'd made life better for someone else. He'd actually done something good.

As he licked sticky rice from his fingers, Raios's gaze traced Sting's arms.

"Are they feeling okay?" he asked.

"Yeah." Sting began to unwrap one forearm, inspecting the blistered skin.

Not everything was burned, but all the old cuts had opened, and any unmarred skin was abraded from the fighting. The sight choked Raios. Sting was the real hero here.

"You'll probably have scars," Raios whispered.

"That's okay. Scars are badass."

Sting looked up so Raios could see his smile was genuine. Raios wondered how he did it: stayed positive even when every possible future looked dim.

Not to mention how Sting could both be cheerful yet cry all the time. Sting sniffled again as they were dropping off to sleep, stuttery breath echoing in the empty room.

Raios longed to roll closer and embrace him, snuggle Sting as they dropped off, but the thought filled his whole body with dread for more than one reason. He couldn't expose his emotions around Sting like that; and he was still nervous at too much touch. Boys grabbing things…he just couldn't full-body cuddle. But he could handle something small.

So Raios rested his hand against Sting's upper arm.

In the dark, Sting sighed and wiped his eyes, filling Raios once again with his wonderful scent. It stirred something in him he couldn't pinpoint. Comforting. He felt beyond any doubt Sting was a safe person.

#

Raios woke up a dozen times throughout the night, restless and afraid. At 3 a.m., he decided to stay up and keep vigil, listening for sounds in the hall.

Staring down at Sting, he smiled: Sting had his face turned toward him so Raios could see the flitting expressions as he moved through his dreams, light breaths warming Raios's hand. Gently, he played with the ends of Sting's hair. The tight curls were springy, shaping themselves like a whole separate entity on top of his head.

At some point, watching Sting, Raios fell asleep again.

Raios awoke to fingers parading over his shoulder, like a tiny massage, and Raios for once did not shoot up with adrenaline pounding through him. That was a first in a long time.

"Sting?" he muttered.

"'Morning." The fingers didn't stop. "I thought we should leave in a little bit; that's why I woke you."

Shit. Raios shoved up on one arm, blinking his eyes and trying to orient himself. For some reason he was on the opposite side of the bed, Sting behind him.

"What time is it?"

"Don't worry about it." Sting was pressing him back down by the shoulder. "Damn, don't be so jumpy. Just relax for a minute. It'll be fine."

Reluctant but grateful, Raios acquiesced, rubbing his arms; the room was chilly. When he'd adjusted to the light, he rolled onto his back and casually inspected their positions. Somehow they had switched sides in the night, and Raios was also much closer to the middle of the futon—as was Sting. Touching in several places.

"Why am I over here?" he asked, letting bewilderment drown out the other emotions in his head.

"You don't remember?" Sting's voice was laidback, but color rose in his cheeks. "You were cold…"

Eyebrows shooting up, Raios shook his head. No, he definitely didn't remember that.

"Anyway, are you warm now?" Sting asked.

Raios nodded, too embarrassed to admit he wasn't. After a few more minutes, he rose and stretched, staring around the room in some regret. Sleeping under a real comforter in a real room had been amazing.

"Well," he sighed, "let's go."

"Bandages first."

Raios immediately saw what he meant. Puss had wept from Sting's arms overnight, staining the strips of cloth. Raios helped him, enjoying the touch maybe too much, first soaking the bandages off with warm water, then applying new ones.

Some of Sting must've been rubbing off on him, because at one point Raios felt tears pressing against his eyelids. The gashes and burns…oh Sting. The pain he had to be in; the marring of that beautiful skin which would almost certainly be permanent; the fact of where the injuries had come from.

_Life is shit._

After Raios tied off the final strip of cloth, Sting raised his hands tentatively and peered into Raios's face.

"Can I see…?" Sting motioned at the hair that had fallen into Raios's face.

"N-No," Raios said, pulling more hair down to cover his nose and left eye. "It'll be fine."

Sting stared at him sadly.

Raios hated it. He hated getting Sting's pity. He would much rather Sting didn't see him at all. Raios could be his shadow, be there for Sting from the background, offer his strength for Sting's use without getting in his way. He would be anything for Sting. He just didn't want to be seen.

"Are you embarrassed about it? It's okay—I get it. But you don't have to be. I won't judge," Sting said, his soft voice tearing at Raios's walls.

Dammit. Damn Sting.

"It looks terrible," Raios said flatly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"It looks fine, Raios. I swear—I wouldn't lie to you."

The compliment swelled in Raios's chest, hot and liquid, and the reality of what he was feeling hit him.

He had a crush.

On the beautiful, powerful Dragon Slayer he'd rescued from traffickers. Goddess, this was messed up. Raios might be better than Rogue, but he still wasn't good enough for Sting.

"You wanted to…take them down?" Raios asked, floundering for a topic that would get Sting to stop looking at him so intensely.

Sting looked surprised. "I just wanted to get the ones who were on the train. I never thought about the whole organization."

Raios gave a shaky, self-abasing laugh—but Sting shook his head.

"No, Raios, that's brilliant. They'll just get new workers. They'll be more careful when they capture kids like us. It'll just get worse, and it'll never stop unless we take out all of them." Sting stared at him with gleaming eyes. "You're more selfless than I am, Raios. I wish I had a mind like yours."

"Oh," Raios said in a tiny voice.

"If we're going to do it, we need a plan," Sting continued. "While we plan, I need to take a look at your face. It's strategic: you can't fight if it splits open."

Raios exhaled. "Fine."

Closing his eyes, Raios held perfectly still and chose not to think about it; not to notice Sting's fingertips brushing his skin; not to consider what Sting was seeing when he pulled Raios's hair away and tucked it softly behind his ear. Sting's strong hands were amazingly gentle.

"First question: how do we find them?" Sting asked, voice much closer than before.

"In a city this big, it should be easy. We just make ourselves easy targets and try to get captured."

"I…don't want to be caught again."

Raios put a hand out blindly and gripped Sting's shoulder.

"Then we won't. I didn't think. I'm sorry, Sting."

"It's okay," Sting said, sounding relieved. "Maybe we could ask around about any disappearing kids?"

"We could go back to the train station. We know that's where they get their shipments."

"That's genius!"

When Sting pressed too hard, Raios couldn't hold back a wince.

"Sorry," Sting said. "Okay, so when we catch them, we need to be careful about attacking. With our injuries, one-on-one might not be best. We might do better if we can make our magic work together."

"Also, I don't think we should attack right away," Raios said. "We follow the shipment back to wherever they keep the kids. We can find the rest of the traffickers that way."

"This is so much smarter with your input," Sting said, smile audible as his breath warmed Raios's face. "I'd just charge in there and not be very effective."

"Ha ha." Raios doubted Sting could ever be ineffective or stupid.

Sting's voice quieted. "The gash is clean now. It looks like the swelling went down overnight, and it definitely isn't broken."

"That's good," Raios stammered, shyness rushing back.

"Thanks," Sting said.

"For what?"

"Letting me help you."

Raios tried so hard not to react. Though Sting's fingers receded from his face, Raios didn't dare open his eyes. He'd cry or grin stupidly or give Sting adoring puppy eyes, and none of those was a good option.

After he felt Sting finally move away, he blinked and stood up.

"Train station?"

"Food," Sting insisted. "Warriors need to eat."

* * *

**A/N:** Rogue/Raios doesn't have the healthiest way of dealing with emotions sometimes. The whole trying to make everything happy and not wanting to cry…yeah, Sting is way stronger than him emotionally. But that's why they need each other.


	6. Losing

**A/N: **Keep in mind that Jewel are roughly equivalent to Yen. Consider 1,000 Jewel equal to about 10 dollars or 10 euros.

* * *

**6: Losing**

They spent hours on vigil at the train station. Watching every train that came through, every unloaded piece of cargo. It might've been boring but for two things: Sting's brain never stopped nor did his mouth, and there was plenty of food.

Stealing was easy when charismatic Sting distracted nearby people and Raios snatched things and disappeared into the shadows.

Finally, as Sting threw a wadded-up wrapper at a passing train, they saw what they were looking for.

A huge red trunk, so heavy the porter had to call someone over to help with it, was deposited on the platform. A young woman, slender and refined, came to fetch it, trailing a broad-shouldered 'servant woman' who hefted the suitcase and followed her.

They zeroed in on the trunk at the same instant, then met each other's eyes.

Sting held out a hand, Raios grabbed it, and in the next instant they were flying through the shadows together.

They followed their prey to a warehouse in the river district. Raios popped them out across the street in the shadow of a dumpster.

"Location makes sense," Sting said. "They probably get other shipments by water. Just how big is this group?"

"It doesn't take many people to run a large operation," Raios said. "They could have any number doing the kidnapping, but for guards and dealers, fifteen people could process a hundred kids per week. Easy."

"How do you know so much about it?"

Raios glanced sideways at him. "I've lived on the street for a long time."

Raios knew from Sting's earlier conversation that the boy had lived at a charity-trade-school, peddling small wares in return for food and a group home. It sounded like a pretty good life for an orphan, which made Raios happy. Sting deserved the best—and Raios liked that Sting hadn't had the positivity beaten out of him by the rough fists of the streets.

"I'm…sorry," Sting murmured, looking down.

_Don't be_ sounded too cliché, so Raios stared at the warehouse and prayed for something else to come up.

"Look," he said suddenly. "Someone new."

A woman came out of the warehouse, dressed in labor clothes. Behind her came another woman, this one in a blue silk iromuji.

With their Dragon Slayer hearing, the two didn't have to leave their hideout behind the dumpster to listen in. The women's conversation covered money and 'goods' and something about shipping costs. Nothing of particular use, but it did tell them that both these women were farther up the chain of command.

"I bet the pale one handles labor or something," Sting said. "The dark one in blue looks like a boss."

"She probably talks to clients," Raios said. "Finds buyers and finalizes the sales. That's why she looks so nice."

Sting glanced over at him.

Blue-kimono-lady got into a magicmobile and nodded up to her driver, an older woman with a cuff on her wrist.

"Damn, she has a mage as her driver," Sting said.

"Probably her bodyguard too."

"Mm. Makes sense."

"So shall we head back and rest?" Raios asked, when more waiting met nothing but an empty street.

Sting smiled. "That's one of the most sensible things you've ever suggested."

Raios glowed under Sting's smile, but aloud he said wryly, "Is that an insult?"

* * *

They kept up spying through three more days despite Sting's impatience, circling the warehouse and even getting a few risky glimpses inside. Slowly they identified all nineteen involved here at the port—seven who oversaw different parts of the operation, and twelve who did pick-up, child-wrangling, and security.

It was impossible to know how many kidnapping agents they had: kidnappers left cargo on the train and two people picked it up, without any interaction. It kept things nicely compartmentalized and difficult to take down. But the independent kidnappers would at least be out of work after this.

"Probably go on the run," Sting said. "I would, if I made my living illegally and suddenly all my friends disappeared."

He had a point: they couldn't make the streets safe in one fell swoop. That would be a lifetime of work. Mage work, Raios realized. Not the kind Phantom Lord did—this work didn't pay well. But it was the kind of work he wanted to do: getting rid of dangerous people.

It sounded like the kind of work Sting wanted to do, too. Raios had already decided he'd rather follow Sting, who talked to him and laughed with him and watched his back, than Phantom Lord, the guild that had never loved him back. He wanted to be strong, not used.

After their fourth day of reconnaissance, they snuck into another empty room—they kept changing ryokan for safety's sake, and tonight's place was small with only one futon to share. This made Raios both anxious and happy. He slept better with Sting against his back.

"I think we should take out the fancy lady and her clients first," Sting said, perched on the futon. "Security is always lower when they're waiting for her to bring back the clients—they're preoccupied with the kids."

"Making the merchandise look palatable," Raios agreed with a grimace, poking at his nose as he stared in the mirror. "It'll be easier to free the kids then, because they won't be in those cages. We can get them out first. That way they won't be harmed in the fighting."

"Good thinking."

Raios blushed.

"So that means we'll be doing Plan H?" he teased to distract himself. Sting had ridiculously labeled all their potential ideas: Plan D was storming the warehouse at night, while Plan F would involve alerting the local royal contingent. Raios didn't like Plan F at all.

"Plan H," Sting agreed with a laugh, delighted. "How's your eye?"

"Better," Raios said quickly.

"Good." Sting sighed as if relieved.

The scar across his face would be nasty. But at least he had his sight.

"C'mere," Sting said.

Raios glanced over as Sting patted the futon.

"We should get enough sleep," Sting said.

Settling beside him, Raios curled up with his back to Sting, a careful sliver of space between them even though it meant his legs were half out from under the warm blanket.

Somehow, miraculously, he managed to fall asleep without thinking too much about the boy centimeters away.

He didn't wake up when Sting curled around him—using his body heat to get Raios to finally stop shivering. Only Sting would remember waking up with Raios gripping his hand. It was probably better for Raios he didn't know: it would've been one more thing to worry over.

* * *

They successfully broke the fancy lady who advertised to clients, as well as the three rich individuals she'd been discussing terms with. It wasn't that hard: no magic among the four of them. The woman's driver-bodyguard would've put up a fight, but they got lucky—she used holy magic. Sting swallowed the surprised woman's spells while Raios darted behind her through the shadows and took her down with one blow.

Now came the hard part.

They soared through the streets back to the alley across from the warehouse. Inside, all remaining personnel were preparing to put on the show if the new clientele agreed to terms. Raios hadn't had to see anything to know how they operated. The kids would be lined up, prodded, and finally haggled over. A strong girl would sell for 12,000 Jewels; that boy over there, he's pretty enough to be put to work in the house, I'll pay 15,000; what about that one? Lots of bruises and a sullen expression; only worth 7,000 Jewels. The price of a fancy dinner.

Raios's chest burned. He was overflowing with anger. He was so thankful to Sting for putting his rage to use.

As they climbed quietly onto the roof, Raios tuned into Sting's body rhythms. His paranoid habit: to listen to Sting's inhales, flowing blood, gurgling intestines, all of it—and know he was okay.

With a final look at each other, they dropped into the warehouse.

Seventeen traffickers descended on them. There was no way to avoid fighting everyone at once, so they caught them unawares: at least it gave them a few seconds. Raios knocked out one and Sting two before the rest—tougher, warier, and better armed—got their feet under them.

Then the fighting began in earnest.

* * *

They freed the captured children first. Raios had been right: security was lower with the 'merchandise' out for sale. There were no cages, and minimal chains. With Sting keeping attention on himself, Raios sliced the shackles from the shadows.

He didn't have to tell them to run. Like wild animals set free, they came alive and leapt toward the exits, sliding between surprised fingers. Tripping over each other, but also helping each other get to the doors. It seemed not everyone was an each-for-themself type. That oddly warmed Raios's heart. Some people were more like Sting than like Raios. That was a good thing.

Sting was beautiful when he fought. He was blunt but agile, and his magic made the room glow. It might've been distracting, but Raios had been immersed in magic far too long to lose focus during something this important. Instead, he found himself flowing into rhythm alongside Sting; complimentary to him; working the push and pull to always have his back, always get out of his way when Sting lashed out.

Beside Sting's pure magic, Raios's sneaky maneuvers felt both shameful and vilified. With Sting as the light, it was okay for Raios to be the darkness. It gave him a role. A place he belonged.

Of course, it wasn't enough to keep Raios from being stupid trying to protect Sting.

The open floor of the warehouse had its drawbacks as a battlefield: nowhere to hide and no way to keep from getting cut off. With a dozen traffickers still standing, a circle formed around the pair and began to close in.

Like the rest of their coworkers, these were nearly all equipped with magic-powered weaponry. Raios and Sting were strong, but numbers were not on their side, and they were sustaining hits. A couple of the traffickers were competent fighters: one woman kept aiming for Raios's nose and eventually hit him, wrenching the healing gash open yet again.

Blood slithered down his face. Blood had never stopped him before, except the woman was on him now, and the man beside her shot fire at Sting that would've burned him if Raios hadn't slammed into Sting, forcing a retreat.

Pain started nagging at him. Raios could hear it in Sting's pulse, too: too much adrenaline and fear winding through his bloodstream.

A hit made Sting collide with his back. When Raiose heard Sting wheeze a breath, he decided. They needed a new plan.

Raios ran at the part of the circle where the two strongest stood. He just managed to slide between them at the last moment, their surprise making them slow, and darted for the door beyond them. As he hoped, they followed.

The room he burst into was an office or a foyer—something with a couple desks. He nearly tripped over one before he could take in his surroundings, nearly losing his hand to a gout of flames. Whirling, he faced his opponents: he'd drawn the man and woman and two more. Leaving Sting with seven, but with the powerful ones out of the way, Raios knew Sting would be able to handle it.

The problem was whether _he_ could handle it.

He managed at first by using the room's furniture to his advantage. Getting the weaker pair between him and the stronger two, he sliced out once and then again. The two dropped. Leaving nothing between him and the giant ball of flames the man shot at him. A crossbow that shot fire: it really was unfair.

Scorching heat took the sleeve and first layer of skin off his pec and shoulder, but he managed to avoid the worst of it.

Behind him, the wall went up in flames. In here, everything was wood. Well, fuck.

His opponents seemed to have the same thought, because the woman did something with her weapons—magical jitte like the man on the train. On her next attack, Raios was ready for the wave of magical energy they flung to be stronger.

To his shock, a wave of black smacked his chest and sent him flying.

The woman seemed confused why her attack hadn't sliced him in two. Raios couldn't believe it. Maybe the goddess was smiling on them today.

The black magic seemed to cost her, because she took a second to catch her breath. She launched another attack, and Raios, ready this time, tipped back his head and gulped.

He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the power slid down his throat. Damn, it was tasty too. He wanted to keep her fighting a bit: that definitely powered him up.

But in the split second it had taken him to swallow, the man shot off more fire, and Raios wasn't in a position to dodge something so large. He tried to fall into the shadows, but they were weak in the presence of so much magically-produced light. Stupid fire.

A draconic bellow fended it off. Barely. Heat swept over him, and now he'd belched up everything the woman had given him.

Raios groaned. It couldn't ever be easy.

The three of them scuffled, but Raios's dodging brought him between the two, and both lunged at once. Raios kicked the woman—she scared him more—while arms closed around him from behind.

Raios tried to strike at the man, but the woman recovered and punched Raios in the stomach.

Breath flew out of him. He coughed, kicking and twisting and getting her to back off while the man struggled to hold on. Wrestling him tighter, the man got his hands around Raios's wrists, and terror flared in Raios's chest.

With a nasty look, the woman swung between his legs.

Raios shredded with cold fear. He was powerless. Hands and touching and pain. Terror turned to instinct and he pressed against the man's arms, knees curling up in time to take the blow. The woman aimed higher and punched his nose instead.

Raios's face ripped open. He screamed.

It hurt beyond anything, his face caving in. Starbursts blinded him and filled his brain so none of his other senses worked, sounds didn't make sense, and he knew he was going to lose badly. He might die here, and that would be awful, because Sting…

Light appeared in the doorway. Growling like a dragon whose nest had been attacked, Sting slammed into the woman's back, distracting her long enough for Raios to free himself from the man's grasp. Both boys struck out and landed hits on their opponents.

But the woman had her dark magic: magic Raios could eat but Sting couldn't. Before Raios could cry out, she retaliated, and Sting took the hit on his forearms.

He flew into the far wall.

Sting hit the ground with a thud that Raios heard with echoing clarity. Sting didn't jump up again, groaning, leaning up on an elbow.

Lunging across the room, Raios swallowed the woman's next shadows and slammed his heel into her gut in a blur of speed. It left him completely open to the man, and fire lanced across his chest.

It was different from his face: burning that seared away at him. Through it, he saw Sting still struggling up. He looked discombobulated. Shit. When the woman went for Sting again, rage exploded in Raios's chest.

He didn't know how he did it, but suddenly he was behind her, flying at her. He struck the woman in the head with his shadows, throwing his body behind it, breathless, aiming to kill. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.

With an uneven breath, Sting rose shakily.

This new, protective anger pumped energy through Raios, and he poured it into a giant roar that finally overwhelmed the man's defenses. At last he toppled. Raios drew in a sweet breath, staggered, and barely caught himself on a wooden desk.

Sting beamed at him wearily.

"You saved me again."

Raios swallowed hard. Sting had a deep cut running through his right eyebrow, blood streaming into his eye. As Sting wiped it away awkwardly—his arms clearly still hurt him—Raios's gut twisted.

Sting got hurt defending him. Protecting him. A hit Raios not only _should've_ taken, but could've taken, easily.

Raios's fault. Raios's fault. Raios's fault.

Swallowing, he asked, "You finished off the others?"

"What? No," Sting laughed, nodding at the door which he'd slammed shut and locked behind him. "I brought them along."

Jolting, Raios registered the impacts shuddering the door.

"C'mon." Sting's fingers laced loosely between his, scarred hand squeezing Raios's. "We've got this."

Raios's courage rose. He looked into Sting's eyes. Raios might die here, but he felt at peace with that.

"We've got this," he nodded.

The door burst open.

* * *

_Coming soon – _**7: Bloodied**


	7. Bloodied

**7: Bloodied**

They almost did it. Almost. Despite being depleted, they managed to knock out four more people—only three left, Sting landing some spectacular kicks—when reinforcements arrived.

That had _not_ been in the plan.

How they'd known, Raios didn't know: maybe it was randomness, or the unluck that followed him everywhere. New, unfamiliar faces appeared through the burned-out wall behind Raios and Sting. If it hadn't been for Sting slicing another wall with his magic and ramming into Raios so they tumbled back into the main warehouse, they'd have been overwhelmed from both sides.

It still wasn't fast enough to keep Raios from being caught in the gut by flying debris. One of the mages exploded a desk at them, splinters ripping into Raios's chest, miraculously missing his face. The burn on his shoulder took the hit straight on and skin shredded and scraped away like old paint. Swaths of raw red covered his stomach and chest now, and his shirt was nothing more than threads in the wounds.

He bit his lips and kept going. It was all there was to do.

Raios had been paying close attention to Sting's fighting—as close as one could while throwing punches. He was tuned into Sting's body, his heartbeat, his muscles, his breath. The fighting styles Sting had been taught were an exact mirror to Raios's.

He wondered…

Their magic was running low, and these new fighters were actual mages. If more hadn't shown up, he and Sting might've won, but this: no, this was going to be too much. Unless.

Raios gripped Sting's hand—he knew when Sting would twist between attacks, and caught him. Surprise reverberated through Sting, who jolted and made a strange sound, but he didn't stop fighting. Raios followed his moves, and when Sting inhaled to roar, Raios copied him.

He pushed his magic into Sting's skin, intending to power him up, but to his surprise, Sting pushed back.

They connected.

Everything was the same, shared, united. Power, spirit—in all of it, they were one. With Sting's heart beating in his chest, Raios felt the world settle into alignment.

Without having to think, they released their attack together.

The roar was a whirlwind of darkness and light. The shadow world and the holy. It carved a path through their remaining opponents and exploded the warehouse wall. For several moments, light and dark were the only thing in existence: creation was undone, awaiting existence, a worldless world.

Their combined power took out _everything._

As the building trembled and sight returned, Raios felt the vestiges of their unity as they dodged falling debris. He could feel Sting's wounds, including a pounding headache and throbbing in his arms—

Sting pushed Raios gently but firmly out of his mind.

"It's going to collapse," Sting said.

Still holding hands, they flew through the gaping hole and out into the street. As the building shook itself apart and dust filled the air, Raios covered his face and tried not to breathe.

Coughing in the aftermath, Raios looked over at Sting, whose glowing blue eyes were focused on the spectacle. Half the building had fallen down; several burned-out walls tilted precariously; and the metal fingers of barred cells stuck up through the debris.

"We brought down the roof," Sting said, turning on Raios with a goofy, lopsided grin.

A startled laugh burst out Raios's chest.

"Yes," he chuckled. "Guess we did."

More softly, Sting whispered, "We finished it."

They'd done it. _Something worth fighting for._ A hundred emotions crowded around Raios's heart, the shape of which he couldn't tell yet.

Pride, maybe. The comforting presence of his father.

Around them, the murmurs of a crowd began to gather. The people were grimy and scarred like they were, and when Raios heard words like _slave traders,_ he realized the locals had known. Of course they had. Just like him, living in the slums, knowing what happened and just doing your best to keep your head down and not be seen. Nobody could do anything—and the Fiore armament wouldn't have helped. Nobody listened to the barrios. Except him and Sting.

Shouts got their attention—official shouts, from armed guards with the Fiore crest on their uniforms. Shit.

"We need to go," Raios hissed.

Trying not to enjoy it too much, he pulled Sting tight against his side and drew them both into the shadows.

* * *

Three hours. That was how long it took them to destroy a black market enterprise selling children.

Sting kept exclaiming over it, making it difficult for them to successfully steal a meal—which, Raios felt, they'd truly earned. When they returned to the first resort where they'd stayed (in order to recuperate in luxury), Raios wondered if he'd have to silence Sting by force, but the boy finally quieted down and shoved food in his mouth. They were both shivering from excess adrenaline and hunger.

Without any preamble to his intentions, Sting stripped and walked into the bath.

Raios choked on his food.

They were both a pale grey from dust, with sticky spots where wounds showed through; cleaning was definitely in order. But Raios felt he deserved some warning before being subjected to Sting's muscled backside. Why did he have to be beautiful?

"Come in here," Sting called. "You look like a youkai."

Raios's hands trembled as he undressed out of Sting's line of sight. _Trembled._ Scared of Sting and of being naked around him. Stupid. It had never bothered Raios before a week ago.

Grit had somehow worked its way under all his clothes. In the process of stripping, he also discovered that his face (where throbbing was so normal he didn't notice it anymore) was bleeding again and his eye was swollen.

With his mind on his injuries, he slunk in—hunched with his arms trying to hide his abdominal injuries—and joined Sting. The latter had just finished filling the bath, dunking himself in like this was normal.

Raios couldn't remember ever being in a situation where he could actually immerse himself in hot water. Bathing usually meant splashing yourself from a cold basin and doing the best you could. When he actually bothered to bathe.

Was Sting used to being clean? Raios would have to make more effort.

Perching on the edge, Raios slipped his feet in the water and slowly began to scrub the dirt off. His awareness of Sting's body kicked back in and he studiously avoided looking at the other boy, self-consciousness buzzing. They were quite close, the bath small. Thank the goddess Sting occupied himself with washing.

Water took away dried blood, and Raios was relieved to see his chest and stomach weren't as skinned as they looked. Deep cuts and gashes covered him, but they had closed and didn't hurt any more than the usual injuries he lived with. He got as much of the dried blood off as possible.

As the last of the grime came off them, skin shiny, Sting observed, "We're both pretty bruised." He poked at a purple bloom on his leg. "Ow."

"Don't poke it, baka," Raios grunted.

Sting flicked water at him.

"Damn," Sting said suddenly. "What did you do?"

Following Sting's gaze on his body and blushing, Raios put a hand over the mark, black and swollen on his brown thigh, and found that his palm couldn't cover it all.

"I don't remember," he said honestly.

Looking up for the first time, he saw that Sting's curly hair was bedraggled like an upset cat that had been forcibly washed. And…

"Holy shit," Raios gulped. "You're bleeding."

"Yeah," Sting scoffed, brushing vaguely at the cuts on his arms and torso. "Here and here and here. So are you."

He reached out as if to touch Raios's chest and Raios shifted quickly.

"No," he interrupted, "I mean up here."

He pointed to Sting's eyebrow.

The cut Sting had sustained coming to his rescue was far deeper than Raios first realized. A red trail squiggled around his eye and down his wet cheek, flow constant. And thick.

Sting touched it tenderly, staring at the scarlet on his fingers.

"Huh. I didn't realize it was still open. Let's see if… Ow—fuck! Damn, I think the bone might be br—bruised."

Shit. Raios swallowed. The woman's shadow magic had been a true marvel—he wished he could've eaten more. But on Sting, whose greatest weakness was dark magic, it cut sharper than a knife. He'd blocked most of the impact with his arms—

Wait. No.

Raios lunged for Sting, splashing water everywhere.

"Hey—!" Sting protested.

Raios grabbed Sting's hands and flipped them over.

He still had the old bandages wrapped around his forearms for now, managing to keep them mostly dry. The bandages were brown and dirty…

And on the underside, torn apart.

"Sting," Raios whispered.

Deep rents ran along one elbow and across the opposite wrist. Black, scarlet, terracotta. They looked like they'd been cauterized—maybe an attack of fire, maybe Sting's own magic. Raios couldn't believe he hadn't seen—but Sting had kept these new cuts facing down. When Raios stared up at him, Sting looked guilty.

"Do they hurt?" Raios asked, trying very hard not to growl.

Sting nodded.

"Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

Sting looked like he might cry, but his voice stayed strong.

"I figured we'd deal with them when you help me with the bandages."

"Sting." Raios reached his fingers for one of the gashes, stopping short of the bloody mess. His voice was thick. "Your bandages are in the wounds; you know what this means? It's going to rip them back open when we peal these off."

Sting stared down, shrinking and small.

Throat icy, Raios said, "You got these because of me."

"No, I didn't. That's why I didn't say anything." Sting pulled from Raios's grip. "You always take responsibility for things. I didn't want you to feel bad."

Raios couldn't look at him. He didn't know if he was angry or afraid or both…or even _what_ he was angry at—the traffickers, or Sting, or himself.

"That's a terrible reason to ignore injuries like this," he mumbled.

"So stop acting guilty for things, and I won't have to," Sting snapped. "Your whole chest is cut up because of me. How do you think I feel? Speaking of which," Sting's voice softened, "how is it feeling?"

Raios wrapped his arms around himself protectively.

"It's fine. They're not bad."

"Okay." Sting sighed heavily. "Well, how do you propose we deal with these?" he asked, lifting his hands. Now that Raios was paying attention, he saw Sting's arms were shaking.

"We can try soaking the cloths off."

When Sting lowered his arms, Raios snatched up his hands again.

"Not in this water. It's got enough dirt and blood in it already."

Sting merely shrugged, making Raios glare at him.

"Those are open wounds. We have to take care of them."

"Fine. You're the healer," Sting said.

Flaring irritation kept Raios from feeling insecure about his naked body as he straightened and got out of the bath. Drying himself, he marveled at how nicely brown his skin looked now. He felt loads better. Minor cuts had sealed, and joints and bruises ached less.

"Sting," Raios said without looking around, "thanks for today. You're a good partner."

He didn't see Sting's awe-struck smile. Nor the blushing glance Sting aimed at his rear.

* * *

Raios had to worry about Sting being noisy again when he picked the remains of the bandages out of his damp wounds. Soaking them in water helped, but the cloth had been charred into his skin in some places, and removing it involved ripping Sting back open. In tiny, slow, agonizing jerks.

The amount of red now seeping into the fresh water scared Raios out of his mind.

When Sting swallowed another scream, Raios stopped for the dozenth time, fingers hovering.

"Worse than…when she sliced me," Sting whispered, panting.

Raios wanted to cry.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm sorry it hurts, I'm so sorry …"

Sting just shook his head, opening his mouth to gasp a ragged breath, then shutting it tight again as more noises whimpered in his throat.

Gripping Sting's bare shoulders, Raios rubbed circles into his skin.

"It's okay. It'll be over soon. You can do it."

"Just finish," Sting whispered. He was growing pale, and guilt threatened to crush Raios's chest. "Get it over with. Please."

Raios lowered Sting's arms into the water again and obeyed. Even when Sting's gasp broke off into soundlessness, he didn't stop. Didn't look up. He knew if he saw the pain on Sting's face, he wouldn't be able to continue. He couldn't stand hurting Sting.

But here he was, doing exactly that.

Finally the ragged bandages were gone. Raios licked his lips, Sting's tears leaving salt in the air.

"You did it," Raios said.

Sting didn't open his eyes. Holding out his arms, he murmured, "Put new ones on?"

Amid the water, scarlet dribbled and began to drip off his fingers.

"I can't right now—"

Sting moaned.

"You're still bleeding, and it'll only stick again. It needs—"

"But it hurts," Sting interrupted, gasping. "It hurts…"

Sting folded himself into Raios's arms. After a second, Raios hugged him, staring down at the exhausted head which landed on his shoulder. Sting shook heavily now, and Raios could see torn flesh in the deep wounds. What might be bone. Fuck.

"I'll wrap them up again," he promised, "but first…"

Taking Sting's hands, he led them gently to the bath and wrapped Sting's fingers around the edge.

"I know you're tired, but hold onto this to keep the cuts from sticking to anything. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Raios rose.

"Where are you going?" Sting asked, eyes flying open; panicked but swaying.

"I'm getting something for you." Raios gave him an encouraging smile, even though he felt sick inside; Sting's blood made him want to throw up. "I'll be back really soon. Trust me."

Hiccoughing, Sting nodded and slumped against the wall, still gripping the bath.

Melting into the shadows, Raios flew out.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Raios materialized in the room out of breath, whole body screaming. His magic was basically gone and some of his cuts had reopened, but speed had been his focus. When he darted into the bathroom, Sting was tilting dangerously to the side, knuckles white. Blood had dripped on the tile, but he valiantly hadn't moved.

Raios fell on his knees next to him and grabbed Sting's hands.

"It's okay: you can let go," he said when Sting tried to resist.

"What did you get…?" Sting broke off. The silence was a ball of pain too intense for noise. Raios felt his heart threaten to rupture. He couldn't do this.

"It's just something that'll make your arms feel better and keep the bandages from sticking to them," he soothed, pulling his contraband from a pocket. "Hold still."

He began to apply the balm, ignoring the way it smeared fresh blood. Sting's arms had swollen while he was gone. When Sting couldn't seem to stop trembling, Raios moved faster.

As he applied fresh cloths, Raios had to ignore Sting's pain to get it done, and he still hated himself for it. _I don't ever want to ignore you. Ever. _But he'd been the one to do this to Sting. Not just the getting wounded—but stripping the wounds back open, cleaning them out and making them bleed again, exhausting what was left of Sting's energy.

When he finished, he half-carried Sting to the futon. Sting wasn't crying—was too tired even for that, but when Raios laid him down, Sting rolled up against him with a weary, wordless moan.

"I'm not leaving," Raios said, heart breaking.

Sting looked so desperate, arms held close against his chest. Reaching out, Raios cupped his cheek. Here, now, the intimate touch wasn't romantic. It was just reaching out, trying to be comforting in the midst of Sting's need. Sting was tired and in pain; he needed closeness. Raios would do anything for Sting.

He'd come to Raios's aid several times throughout the battle, and in a much larger sense, had rescued Raios from himself. Simply by being in that box when Raios opened it—by behind beautiful and strong and determined; by being passionately in love with life and welcoming Raios in, accepting him despite what he was, Sting had saved him.

When he was sure Sting's eyes were closed, Raios mouthed, _I love you._

It didn't have to require a response. Sting could go on being amazing. Raios would be happy just being his friend.

When Sting's heartbeat leveled off into a doze, Raios rose to tackle his face.

The wound had opened—yet again—and he hadn't managed to clean out all the dirt in the bath, so he carefully rinsed it. It wasn't bleeding as much as it had on other days. Though the skin around his eye was swollen, he could see.

Small blessings. It was still a jagged mark.

While he saved most of the balm for Sting, he used a tiny bit on his nose. It took him a long time to decide to do that. If he healed quickly, though, Sting wouldn't worry about him so much. Sting wouldn't force him to sit still and be taken care of. Sting wouldn't touch his face anymore…

Raios had paused for the smallest second.

But he didn't want Sting worrying about him.

When he finished, he returned to Sting's side. _Where I belong._ As he watched Sting sleep, his own exhaustion caught up with him.

Tears escaped, the prisoners of a broken spirit. Sure, they won, but there had been too much pain to call it a clean victory. Raios had to re-injure Sting in order to take care of him: the irony of that wasn't lost on him. Always hurting those he cared about. Always.

That was who he was, but the fact that Sting wanted to be around him anyway…Raios could never repay that debt.

Maybe that was okay.

* * *

They both slept for over a day.

Somehow they were lucky enough that nobody booked the room they appropriated. Sting was awake when Raios cracked his eyes open. A wonderful smell—besides Sting's—wafted through the room, and he sat up quickly.

"Food," Sting said before he could ask, holding some out to him. "I stole some from downstairs—don't worry, nobody saw me."

"I trust you," Raios said, taking the sweet-smelling offering.

He was grateful Sting had stolen a _lot_ of food, because they were both famished.

As they polished off the makeshift feast, Raios said, "We should redo your arms."

Sting flinched.

"Can we not? I mean, not yet. Just a nap first. And then we can."

Raios nodded. He couldn't force Sting through any more pain.

They both curled up again, Raios less surprised than he used to be when Sting lay down right next to him. As Sting curled to put his head on Raios's shoulder, legs pressed up against his thigh, Raios was better at controlling the flutter in his chest. If he pretended it was only fear of being touched, he could focus on being brave, and just manage not to blush.

"Thanks for taking such good care of me," Sting murmured. "You make me feel better."

His breath was hot on Raios's shoulder, even through the fabric of his yukata.

Raios swallowed. "Any time."

Then he kicked himself for saying something so dumb. Great, here came the heat in his cheeks.

But Sting said nothing about the blush, cuddling in as close to Raios as possible.

Fear of being touched _was_ part of what made this hard for him. But, he realized, it was getting easier. He trusted Sting. Knew where Sting would stop, draw the line. Knew Sting well enough to predict his movements, so that it wasn't quite so unknown and terrifying.

Sting felt like home in a way Raios hadn't experienced for a very long time. Warm and known and okay.

That thought made him relax as they dropped off together.

* * *

Raios fell asleep first.

No wonder, with all the fretting and bandaging and running around he'd been doing. When Sting knew Raios was out, he tilted his head just a little and watched Raios's face, twitching every so often in sleep.

He wondered what Raios dreamt about.

Raios was the most enigmatic person Sting had ever met. Sting hardly got anything out of him about his life before, but there were things to pick up in his body language and what he left unsaid. While Raios acted strong and hardnosed, Sting knew that meant Raios felt weak and small and insignificant.

Sting wanted him to feel at ease, truly and effortlessly. He didn't know how to do that, but together seemed the best way forward. It was very clear to Sting that he had an effect on Raios—a sign that Raios might just be learning to trust him. He loved when Raios's heartbeat picked up when Sting looked at him; he hated when Raios cowered in fear of him. In Raios's fear, Sting got lost, unable to help. He wanted to hold Raios's hand and plant good things together and grow a world where everyone thrived. Especially Raios.

Besides, they couldn't split up now. They were twins with their magic. Not just the same moves, but they'd _done a_ _Unison Raid._ It was amazing, sharing their senses for those seconds. Even without that connection, Sting could always feel Raios's presence nearby: a gap in his light, a chink in his armor. Darkness that Sting couldn't reach, but he wanted to.

He so wanted to.

The deep, thoughtful expression Raios got when he thought the world didn't see him—Sting lived and died for that look. Soft and lonely and sad. And yet still hopeful. Waiting for greater things.

Sting wanted to protect Raios's pure spirit. And he wanted Raios to smile. He really, really wanted to see Raios smile for real. So far Sting could count Raios's grins on one hand, and they'd all been hidden behind hands or hair.

When Raios smiled, Sting found the strength to love the shittiest corners of the world. Something about Raios changed everything.

Eventually, still gazing at Raios and imagining him without anything covering his face, Sting dozed off.

Still recovering, their 'nap' lapsed into yet another day, and they didn't awaken until a roar echoed in the street below.


	8. Kept

**A/N: **The final two chapters. ^_^

**8: Kept**

Thank the Goddess, the roaring noise was not a mob.

It was a parade, informal and full of scruffy everyday people. But there was no question what the parade was celebrating: someone was carrying an effigy of a garrote with a blue doll hanging from it, and people were happily pelting trash at it.

"The soldiers got on that fast," Sting commented. "Normally they take a few days before hanging someone."

Raios grunted.

Hangings were rarer and rarer—too 'uncivilized' for some towns—but he'd seen more than he wanted to see. He wondered if Sting had ever watched someone die. Perhaps he'd been spared that.

"Let's go join them," Sting said eagerly, turning to him with a smile.

Raios blinked. He generally avoided crowds.

"Y-You want to?"

"Yeah! Celebrate our victory. We gotta be good to ourselves sometimes," Sting laughed. He raised his bandaged arms. "We got these doing it; we gotta get something in return."

Raios watched him looking so happy, and ducked his head. His whole body felt stiff, but he didn't have any good reason to say no.

"Okay," he said quietly, curling his hands into fists behind his back.

"Raios?" Sting frowned and stepped toward him.

"It's nothing," Raios said, batting a hand in front of his face and trying to laugh off his expression, but Sting shook his head.

"You bit your lip."

"Oh." Raios licked his lip, surprised to taste iron.

"Are you alright?" Sting asked softly, his eyes on Raios's lip. His hand appeared in Raios's vision, stretching toward his face, and Raios did not flinch like he once had; he let it come, unbreathing, until Sting's finger touched his lip.

They were so incredibly close.

"Got to be careful with the sharp teeth," Sting teased quietly, still watching Raios's mouth. He moved his thumb over the wound, and it was all Raios could do not to fall over.

"S-Sorry," was all he could think to say.

Sting's eyes flicked up to his, which turned out to be even more intense, then back to Raios's mouth, Raios sure he was freaking out, he was going to hyperventilate, this was not happening: they were _not_ this close and Sting was _not_ staring at him like—

Raios reeled back, stumbling and nearly falling over. In startled apprehension, Sting watched him, not moving forward, but not lowering his hand.

"Sorry, I—" Raios's hand floundering behind him landed on the handle to the bathroom. "I should wash the gash again," he mumbled, diving into safety where he could turn his back on Sting's eyes.

"Are you alright?" Sting asked.

"I can't, um…" Raios ran the water and began dabbing at the wound on his face. It definitely did need cleaning out: dried blood had caked all over it again while he slept. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Sting said quietly, his voice right behind Raios, who tried not to freak out.

After a moment, he heard Sting retreat, and he let out a sigh, closing his eyes as he washed his face. That was too close.

* * *

They both washed—somehow they got past the awkwardness of Raios touching Sting's arms so that the re-bandaging was not as horrible as Raios feared it would be—and then Raios flew them out of the ryokan, popping out in a corner where the street took a bend.

"Hey, that looks hopping!" Sting said, pointing at a public house across the way.

They squeezed inside, past the jubilant hubbub to the bar. Sting scored some alcohol immediately, but Raios waved away the drink Sting offered him, sticking to vigilance.

And then—

"It's them! That's the ones. Right? Aren't you the ones who helped them take it down?"

Raios backed up, panicking, heart fluttering in his chest, but Sting's shock turned into that charismatic smile of his and he replied casually, "Guilty as charged." When he waved, his bandaged arms caught people's gazes.

This got comments and talk going, and there were too many voices for Raios to parse them all out. It was noise, sound, barrage. He took a deep breath and stepped to hide behind Sting, watching the people around them and trying to read each individual.

"They didn't just help," someone said. "They fucking led it. I saw them coming out. The fucking king's men showed up after the party."

"You're mages?" someone asked beside Raios. Raios jumped.

Sting beamed. "Yeah, we are. And yeah, we started the fight."

"Damn, boy," the bartender said.

"I can't take full credit," Sting laughed. "My partner here deserves at least half the praise—more, frankly. He," Sting's hand thumped down on Raios's shoulder and pulled him more into the center, "saved my life."

Now the impressed eyes were on Raios, who tried his best to stay small. Not enough air.

Meanwhile everyone was talking and laughing and boisterously celebrating.

So began an afternoon of hell.

Sting joined smoothly with the crowd like a jewel in a crown, gleaming and perfectly fit. Raios felt like the scrap of dirt that someone would wipe away at any moment. He didn't belong here. He didn't know how to do this.

As Sting mingled and flirted and laughed, Raios's huddling behind him was only measurably effective. He wanted to be invisible, but Sting would not let him. He actually seemed annoyed that Raios was being so quiet.

"Was it four of them, or five?" Sting would ask, turning brilliant blue-eyed attention on him and trying to pull him into conversation. "Tell them about blocking that dark magic."

Raios's answers got shorter and shorter, until at last he just shrugged. Sting gave him a hurt look, and Raios wanted to look anywhere else.

Eventually he noticed a boy making eyes at him across the room. Blushing, quickly looking away when Raios caught him, but then he'd go back to staring. Raios scratched errantly at his arms and tried to ignore the constant stare.

Sting wrapped an arm around Raios's shoulders as someone offered them food, Sting dragging Raios forward with him until they could sit at a table where the talk was, if possible, even louder. Raios couldn't dislodge Sting's arm without hurting him, could only let himself be dragged into a seat. On the edge of the bench, Raios balanced like a flighty, jittering bat.

People kept brushing against him as they passed by in the crowded pub, and every time, he stiffened.

"Hey," Sting said as he turned away from the latest congratulant. His smile was kind and iridescent. "You okay?"

Raios forced happiness onto his face. "I'm okay."

"Lots of people, eh?" Sting chuckled. "Guess this is what it's like to be famous."

"Yeah."

Sting picked at his shirt, then shot Raios a calculating glance.

"Did you see the boy over there?"

Raios looked where Sting nodded, desperately hoping it wasn't _the_ boy. It was.

"I think he likes you."

Raios swallowed. "Oh. Huh."

"You interested?" Sting asked.

"I…what?" He felt Sting's gaze sharpen, paying more attention than he had all afternoon, and it made Raios's skin prickle.

"Would you ever be interested in a boy?" Sting repeated.

They hadn't said anything about orientation before. Raios wondered if he dared admit the words that might lead Sting to realize how Raios felt about him. On the other hand, Sting should know the real him.

"Y-Yeah," he stammered. "Boys. Yes."

Sting nodded thoughtfully, and Raios had no idea what it meant.

Just then, several new people came over with drinks for Sting—for both of them—wanting to touch their shoulders and hear the story in detail. Hear how badly the bad guys had gotten it. How high the body count was.

People could be violently vindictive.

Sting forced him to talk. And suddenly, Raios hated it: hated Sting doing this to him, wondered brokenly why he was scared when nobody else seemed to be and if there was escape that wouldn't be humiliating. How to tell Sting this made him panic, in a way that Sting wouldn't see him as damaged—even though he _was_. How to tell Sting in a way Sting would hear it and believe him.

It was incredible he hadn't noticed Raios's discomfort yet, because Sting was looking at him a _lot._

And with so many expressions: flushed, happy, secretive, praising. It was all there and Raios didn't understand it. He just wanted to sink into the shadows on the floor.

Across the room, the boy kept watching, and Sting kept schmoozing, and Raios grew tenser and tenser the more people touched his back and got in his face and asked him probing questions about where his injuries came from with smiles plastered on their faces.

The spasms in Raios's stomach made him feel lighter than air.

After an hour, Raios knew he was about to burst into angry, exhausted tears. Mumbling something about the toilets, which Sting wouldn't hear anyway because he was so busy being a socialite, Raios slipped away into an unoccupied corner of the room.

When his eyes skipped over the room, he saw the staring boy was approaching him.

He froze.

But he was in safety now, where there was plenty of darkness to fade into. He couldn't get hurt. He could handle a single person. The boy wasn't with a group.

"Is it true?" the boy asked, stopping in front of him. "You guys are amazing if it is. Hell, if it's only half true."

Raios swallowed and nodded.

And then Sting came marching back into his life, lighting up the darkness with his smile and extending a hand to the boy for introductions.

Tetsuya, his name was.

"And yes, it's true," Sting grinned, sticking out his chest a bit as he looked warmly over at Raios. "It was pretty brilliant. I was there, and I kinda can't believe it."

"Did you have to fight?" Tetsuya asked Raios, wide-eyed. "I mean, obviously… What was it like? Did anyone die?"

They both looked at Raios for an answer. Under too many stares, Raios couldn't get his jaw to move.

"Yes," Sting said, when Raios remained silent. "A few. Well-deserved, though."

Tetsuya's eyes somehow managed to get rounder. "You killed… But they did deserve it. Everyone knows what they did."

"Raios here took out more of them than me," Sting said, leaning against Raios. His body was unbearably hot against Raios's side and Raios wouldn't have moved for anything. The more Tetsuya stared at Raios, the closer Sting got into Raios's space, as if trying to take Tetsuya's attention for himself. For that, Raios was grateful—fucking finally.

"He's got one of the strongest types of magic there is," Sting continued. "And he's the one who managed to destroy the warehouse, really."

"I heard it was both of you," Tetsuya asked.

"It was Raios's idea," Sting said. He beamed, squeezing Raios's arm. "We make a great team."

"Cooperation is an important skill," Tetsuya said, playing with his fingers. He was still looking frequently at Raios, but the glances were softer, gentle and quiet. Raios wasn't sure if that were better or worse.

"You're—You're amazing," Tetsuya murmured, and for a moment he caught Raios's eye and held it. He looked so sincere Raios was taken aback.

"Yes, he is."

For a moment, Sting's voice dropped low, the way it did when he told Raios private things about himself, and Raios _knew_ he was blushing. He refused to turn his head and look at Sting, instead staring at Tetsuya and trying to pretend everything was normal.

"Well, nice meeting you, Tetsika," Sting said, tone back to the bright, pitched voice he used with the crowds. "C'mon, let's mingle some more."

Smiling, he tugged on Raios's hand.

Raios pulled out of his grip.

"I want to stay here," he mumbled. Everyone touched him and it was so startling and intimidating and why couldn't Sting understand that?

When hurt bloomed on Sting's face, Raios's stomach squeezed.

"C'mon, why not?" Sting asked, sounding light, but his eyes were sharp and painful.

Raios was acutely aware of Tetsuya watching them.

"Everyone's so touchy. It's weird," he said lamely.

Sting's laugh, though gentle, cut the air and made Raios want to crawl deep into a dark hollow of the earth. He felt so small beside Sting. It was uncomfortable in a way Sting never had been before.

"Raios," Sting said, caressing his arm, "that's how people are when you do something amazing."

"No." Raios planted his feet. "You go—talk. Drink. Whatever. I'm going to sit down and…"

Raios shrugged, but the words were enough. Sting's expression tensed, going as blank as whitewash. Raios just wanted him to have _fun._ Being among groups was apparently how Sting experienced fun. Raios wasn't trying to push Sting away—Sting had pushed _him_ away by shoving him at all these people, and that was okay, Sting was allowed to push him away, but not overwhelm him and embarrass him and tie his tongue so he could not speak.

It wasn't fair, and it wasn't Sting's fault, but it wasn't anyone's fault.

"I'll stay with you," Tetsuya volunteered, sitting on the stool beside Raios with a smile.

"Sure," Raios huffed, wishing he could make words do his bidding as Sting continued to look so utterly emotionless. "Come find me later," he told Sting. "You know where I'll be."

Face scrunching in something Raios had never seen before, Sting whirled and walked away.

Raios slumped onto the stool Tetsuya motioned to and laid his head on the bar. He wasn't good enough. He'd lose Sting forever.

It hurt so bad because he'd never wanted so badly for someone to not leave.

"Crowds freak you out, eh?" Tetsuya said, leaning beside him at a comfortable distance. "Me too. It's just so loud and overwhelming."

Raios nodded without saying anything.

"Here." Tetsuya held out his hands, and Raios looked distrustfully at them, uncertain between Tetsuya being a stranger and his eyes being kind. "Your shoulders."

Gently Tetsuya put his hands on Raios's back, and Raios didn't flinch—didn't move, just stayed tense and ready in case he needed to flee.

But all Tetsuya did was run his palms over Raios's shoulders, not gripping or going too hard. He didn't get close to any of Raios's injuries, and he kept his touch light.

"So you do a lot of jobs like this?" Tetsuya asked. "Or is this a first?"

"First, I guess? Not really," Raios said. "I used to do jobs with a guild."

When he glanced back, he saw Tetsuya's eyes had lit up. "You were in a guild! Wow. I heard only the best mages can get into them."

"Yeah, you have to be strong enough," Raios said, thinking of Master Jose's rules about who could join. He didn't feel like correcting Tetsuya; it was kind of nice to be looked at like that, with surprise and awe, as if he were actually…good at something.

"When did you learn magic?" Tetsuya asked, using longer strokes and actually getting Raios to relax a tiny bit.

"When I was little," Raios replied, then decided it was okay to say the rest: "from a dragon."

"Oo, that's awesome."

It turned out Tetsuya was fascinated by magic, to the point where Raios began encouraging him to try it for himself. Also because the sheer volume of Tetsuya's questions was starting to overwhelm him.

Tetsuya seemed to sense that and quieted down. He'd stopped rubbing Raios's shoulders, Raios turning around to have a proper conversation, so Raios noticed when Tetsuya drew nearer.

It wasn't subtle, and clearly wasn't meant to be, Tetsuya looking up with a soft, dark look that made Raios's stomach flutter when he realized what it was meant to imply.

"S-So what do you do?" Raios asked, floundering for conversation.

Tetsuya smiled, looking away and leaning against Raios's shoulder. Light and not pushing, Tetsuya stayed there as they discussed his job serving in the pub. Part of Raios wanted to move away from his warmth, but a larger part was eager to keep things going smoothly, keep Tetsuya happy, avoid the negative interactions he was used to.

While he knew this touch was…different, Raios wasn't well-versed in what friendship should look like. Sting was the only person he'd gotten close to, and Sting was special.

Tetsuya moved closer and Raios, panicking, glanced around for Sting. The latter still schmoozed, but he threw a glance in Raios's corner, eyes passing over Raios before continuing around the room. Without a smile or a frown or anything. Like Raios was just…background.

This was Sting's fault. He was the one who'd given Tetsuya a saintly image of Raios, who'd left him here, who hadn't understood what he needed and didn't care about rescuing him—of course he didn't, he shouldn't have to, but _still._ Raios had gotten used to Sting's presence, and to be abandoned while surrounded, one of his greatest fears, felt like betrayal of the friendship they'd built.

Walls; Raios needed walls around his heart. Falling in too deep just meant he'd be hurt, holding expectations that weren't realistic for the kind of relationship they had.

The warmth on his shoulder, the head leaning into him, felt like a wall. Like protection from hurting.

Tetsuya gave plenty of warning before he kissed Raios.

Raios let it happen.

At first, he wasn't sure what to do. Where to put his hands, whether he was allowed to breathe, if he should move or hold stock-still. Tetsuya's lips moved lightly across his and Raios nearly jumped out of his skin. It felt…good. Fluttery in his stomach, even while the emptiness was still gaping inside him.

That terrible hopeful part of him wondered if kissing Sting would be like this.

Parting his lips, Raios leaned ever so slightly forward. Tentative and afraid, but… Sting didn't want him. So maybe he should want this boy instead.

Tetsuya's tongue slid over his lips and into his mouth, lighting Raios on fire. Holy shit. It was too good, having someone want him. Having someone see him.

And kissing was really, really amazing.

As Tetsuya's mouth moved over his, Raios's lip stung. From where he'd bitten it earlier, when Sting had told him he was wonderful. Because hearing that from Sting—thinking of the way Sting smiled, the way he moved, the fact that they had pulled off a Unison Raid because the truth was Raios was falling in love with him—

He pulled back gasping a little, both he and Tetsuya flushed.

"That was fun," Tetsuya said in a low voice. Eyes skipping over Raios's face, he murmured, "I gotta go, but I'll be behind the bar; just come find me."

Reaching over to squeeze Raios's forearm, Tetsuya moved off through the crowd.

When Raios dared to look toward Sting, Sting stood tall and stiff. His eyes were locked on Raios and Raios realized with mortification that he'd watched the whole thing.

And then Sting looked away, wandering across the room searching for a server. Just like that, Raios's heart crashed onto the floor. It seemed to be skipping beats, forgetting its rhythm as it died pathetically.

As Sting waved and gave a flirty smile to someone, utterly preoccupied with charming himself into a drink, Raios hated himself.

* * *

It took a long time for Raios to get up the courage to go the Sting's side. When he touched Sting's arm, Sting looked around with a start as if he hadn't been paying attention, and Raios saw pain flash across Sting's face before Sting could hide it. It squeezed Raios's heart. He knew he'd messed up, even if he didn't know in what way exactly, and the fact that _he_ was now the bigger betrayer of the two of them fell heavy on his chest.

He stayed silently in Sting's shadow the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

As soon as Raios popped them into a ryokan room, Sting pushed away and fell face-first onto the bed. It was a raised mattress, not a futon, but the fall was still enough to make Sting groan and roll around to cradle his arms.

"Are they sore?" Raios asked, coming to sit near him.

"Mm," Sting said noncommittally and stared up at the ceiling.

Finally, when the silence felt like it might become permanent, Sting said, "I saw you kiss that boy."

Raios colored.

"He kissed me," he corrected. His voice almost came out as a growl. "You kept telling him what amazing things I did today. Kept making him look at me like that."

Finding himself glaring at the far wall, Raios bent his head and focused on breathing, curling and uncurling his fists in his lap. He could feel Sting's gaze flit over to him, then back to the ceiling.

"Sorry for complimenting you," Sting shot back eventually.

Raios was too upset to answer.

They cleaned their wounds in silence that night, though Sting still needed Raios's help and Raios offered it gently. He was beginning to feel that despite his frustration the rift between them was his fault.

He didn't know how to bridge it, though.

When they collapsed into the bed on either side, Raios didn't hesitate like he usually did—freezing when Sting would touch him—just rolled up against Sting's side and put his head on Sting's shoulder. Sting had made no move to touch him, lying stiffly on his back. After a tiny instant of thought, Raios wrapped an arm around him too.

"I'm tired, Sting," he said softly.

"So sleep." Sting's voice was baffled and annoyed.

"I'm tired of people," Raios said. "Can it just be us? Nobody else, just you and me."

Sting inhaled.

"For how long?"

"However long. Always."

Sting squeezed him, head tilting to touch Raios's. "Sure, Raios. It can be just us for as long as you want."

* * *

Raios dreamed about kissing Sting. It started as a light kiss but quickly became more, Sting kissing him harder and longer than Tetsuya, working to undo it, helping Raios make a _new_ first kiss. This was the real first kiss.

Raios's lips started hurting but he didn't stop, couldn't stop, not with Sting so eager. Even when Raios's lip began to bleed, the taste made Sting more passionate, arms around Raios's shoulders, pulling him so he was safe, safe, safe.

Raios awoke to the taste of blood thick in his mouth, and _real._

"Raios," Sting shifted groggily. "Are you okay?"

"Mm?" Raios replied, trying not to spill blood down his chin and swallowing while he tested his lip.

"You hurt yourself?" Sting asked, as if that made sense, but Raios realized that the answer was in fact _yes._

"Just a split lip," he said. "Go back to sleep."

But in the morning, staring at his reflection, Raios could see two scabbed punctures from where he'd champed down. Well, good. This was the lip that had kissed someone other than Sting. Raios was loyal to Sting alone, which meant no kissing, no pining, no more fireworks in his chest when he caught Sting's eyes. Just being what Sting needed.

Being a good friend.


	9. Remembered

**9: Remembered**

_Some years later._

Raios came back to his and Sting's room after running an errand, a small gift for Frosch in his pocket. He felt happy, which was unusual for him, and when he found Sting in the room, he was about to share his find, but Sting turned around and stopped Raios in his tracks.

Sting was staring open-mouthed as if he'd never seen Raios before. Or worse, like he _had._ Like he knew everything.

"Rogue?"

He blinked. The word sounded strange, like something long-forgotten.

"Yes?" he answered automatically.

"We were… Rai-Rogue, were we friends as kids? Before our fathers…?"

The memory hit him in the stomach, landing so suddenly as if it'd always been there—as if it were ridiculous he could've forgotten.

"They were friends," he said slowly. "Skiadrum and Weisslogia knew each other centuries… I remember we visited you a lot."

"Yeah, we did. Rogue." Sting's lips turned up at the corners when he used the name. Raios was already caving, already begging mentally for Sting to call him that again and again. _Rogue. I am Rogue. It's who I've always been._

Sting grinned suddenly.

"And we always practiced our magic together. You and me. We hung out all the time and tried new stuff together. That's how we pulled off that first Unison Raid without any practice whatsoever."

"We did that on our own," Rogue protested, put out for reasons he couldn't articulate. _Maybe we're just really good together, Sting._

"Oh, I agree," Sting said. "We synced up because we wanted to. We wanted to be close, because we've known each other all our lives. That's why this all feels right."

Rogue swallowed. _Right_. Nothing had been right since Skiadrum got sick, until he found Sting. Sting was his home.

"I can't believe I forgot you." Sting's mouth twisted and he looked away, but not before Rogue saw tears forming in his eyes. "I feel like an asshole."

"I forgot too. It's trauma. I've forgotten a lot of things. And it was a long time ago that they… We hadn't seen each other since we were five, Sting. I think that's a decent excuse."

"Still. My best friend."

The muscles of Sting's chest knotted, mesmerizing Rogue.

"I shouldn't be allowed to forget the special people in my life. Sometimes—Rogue, I can't even remember what my father looked like."

For all the lightness that had filled Rogue at the words _special people_, heavy weight dropped into him.

"Me n-neither." He turned his back, staring out the window through the curtain of his hair. "I think I'm the worst son on earth."

A couple quick footsteps and Sting's arms smothered him from behind, tight around his waist as if Sting were trying to keep Rogue from flying away. It put them so close together, Sting's body pressed right up against his. Rogue could've melted into that embrace. Instead, his mind ran circles wondering if he was being too stiff, or too loose, or too apathetic, or too forward, or too…

When Sting's warm face pressed against his neck, Rogue tried as hard as he could to breathe normally. Sting would hear it. Sting could hear it all.

"You're not a bad anything, Rai—Rogue. We're strong and we're who they wanted us to be."

"Mm."

"Everything we've done—they would be proud, Rogue." Sting sniffed. "We even found each other again. They'd be so happy about that."

"Yeah."

Rogue brought his hand up and laid it on top of Sting's. He felt brave with Sting. He felt like he could do anything.

Like hold his hand.

The heightened senses went both ways: Rogue heard the way Sting's breath went uneven as Rogue slid his thumb back and forth along the back of Sting's fingers, the little gasp as Rogue leaned back against him.

Beautifully reckless, Rogue intertwined their fingers. Sting's pulse leapt.

The face against Rogue's neck twisted, something moving softly over his skin. There was a little nip and Rogue realized Sting was kissing him. His mouth was _on Rogue's neck kissing him holy shit—_

"Your heart is going really fast," Sting whispered.

"Yours too."

Rogue swallowed, every warm breath against his skin lighting sparklers in his gut. He didn't want to let go of Sting, to break the embrace—to maybe break the moment and never get it back again, never get to touch Sting like this again. In case it were a fluke, in case he jolted Sting back to his senses and Sting pulled away in disgust. But he needed to see his teammate face to face. He needed to look Sting in the eye, let Sting see his intentions, and face whatever expression Sting wore.

The White Dragon tried to hang onto Rogue's fingers as he twisted around, but their gazes met and Sting loosened his grip, blue eyes wide. He looked afraid and awed.

Taking a small, tense breath, Rogue jerked forward and kissed him on the mouth.

It was more of a collision than a kiss, Rogue too nervous to wield fine motor skills. But that was okay, because Sting was enthralled, lips snagging on his, nibbling, doing things with his tongue which made Rogue's pulse flutter in his throat. Sting was amazing at this. Much better than he was. _He's had practice,_ the snide part of Rogue whispered, but Rogue shut that down. Sting was kissing him now.

Breathing hot and heavy against Rogue's cheek, Sting slid his hand down Rogue's arm and pulled him closer. Chest to chest, Rogue could almost _feel_ Sting's thundering heartbeat, was alight with the sensations of Sting's sweaty fingers interlocking with his, a palm hovering questioningly against his waist. Rogue wanted to move into him until they were one and the same, truly inseparable, every sense shared.

As he overcame his fear enough to wrap his arms around Sting, something slid against Rogue's crotch.

Rogue's inner world imploded. Frantic, he leapt backward and crashed into the wall. The good things in his stomach froze over in panic.

Panting, Sting's expression twisted, hurt.

"I'm sorry," Rogue said at once. "I wasn't expecting—I didn't mean…"

Fuck, he'd really messed this up.

"It's okay." Sting shook his head. "I didn't mean to set you off."

"You didn't—"

Sting cut him off with a look and Rogue went limp against the wall.

"What happened?" Sting asked softly.

"Other kids thought it was funny to…hurt me."

Sting's hands flew to his mouth, a tear slipping down his cheek. In horror, he whispered, "Did they…?"

"No," Rogue said quickly, and Sting nearly toppled with relief. "They were testing if I was a boy."

Sting jerked. "Goddess."

"It's okay; I'll be fine. It's nothing like what you went through. It's a stupid thing to react to." Rogue tried to laugh.

"It's not stupid."

"Yes—"

"No, it's not!" Sting yelled, angry. "Stop comparing your life to mine. From the sound of things, yours was pretty fucking horrific. So stop comparing it like…like there's such a thing as 'worse' misfortune. It's all traumatic. It all…just…_sucks._"

When Sting hung his head, rubbing his arms and shrinking in on himself, Rogue didn't know what to say.

"Okay," he finally murmured.

Sting looked up at him with wet eyes.

Rogue walked over until he was in Sting's embrace again, wiping Sting's cheeks: he looked so pitiful, and Rogue just wanted to hold him.

"You're going to dehydrate," he teased softly.

Sting sniffled and laughed.

"At least I express myself."

"Is that a hint?"

"Maybe." Sting smiled at him. "I used to wish I could read your thoughts, but nowadays you tell me the important stuff. For which I'm grateful."

Rogue smiled back.

"Maybe," Sting said, gaze tracing Rogue's features, "this is a byproduct of constantly uniting our magic, but…sometimes I almost know what you're going to say before you say it."

"There's no magic to relationships."

"I know. I meant, because we're always together, paying attention, predicting…I know all your moves, Rogue. Maybe the only thing I _don't_ have memorized," Sting raised a hand to Rogue's cheek as he smiled, "is the other half of your face."

Rogue felt blood rush upward as Sting pulled his bangs to the side. Rogue knew his scar was a long, warped line bisecting his face—thick, shiny, and red, as if determined to be as visible as possible.

"Sting." He sucked a breath, trying to duck his chin, but Sting followed the movement, staring into his eyes, studying him from the space of a few centimeters. Rogue's heart was doing backflips.

"Maybe it's a good thing you always hide behind your hair," Sting said seriously. "I could look at you all day. Would probably get really distracting."

Rogue spluttered. "There's a giant scar across my face."

"Didn't I tell you before?" Sting leaned in, nudging Rogue's nose with his own. "I really like scars."

"But mine is weird."

"I mean, I _really_ like scars. I find scars really, really hot. _Really_ hot, Rogue…"

The air was thin, Rogue could tell, because breathing did nothing to alleviate his dizziness.

"My eye is messed up," he mumbled.

"It's not. The scar goes right up to your eyelid, but the edge doesn't fold over like it used to. Your eye is completely healed—your beautiful, crimson eye."

"_Sting._"

Sting grinned. "Am I embarrassing you?"

"Yes."

"I can see I'm going to be the demonstrative one."

"I still kissed you first," Rogue grumbled.

"True." Sting raised his eyebrows. "Guess you have a bigger pair than me."

"Sting!"

Laughing, Sting wrapped him up in a hug and started tickling him. Amid wild protests, Rogue flailed, knocked them both to the floor, and managed to partially free himself, fingers finding Sting's sensitive spots and taking revenge. It was quite pleasing, between Sting's infectious cackles and the fact that Sting always wore as little clothing as he could get away with. While Rogue got to explore Sting's bare sides, Sting breathless with laughter as they rolled around, Sting was still trying to find a way around Rogue's bulky layers.

When Sting was laughing too hard to draw air, Rogue finally let up, crouching on his haunches between Sting's legs. They wound down, panting and grinning at each other, Rogue leaning over Sting with his hands on either side of Sting's waist.

"You wear too much clothing," Sting said, beaming.

"I'm not sure I should take fashion advice from _you_."

Sting snorted. "Rogue, the world would bow down in worship if you wore my clothes for a day."

"You wear clothes?" Rogue deadpanned.

"Good point. You might as well just go shirtless."

Rolling his eyes, Rogue smacked his stomach. "No thanks."

"Why not?" Sting gave an exaggerated pout. "Seriously, what would I have to do to get you shirtless for a day?"

"Nothing." Rogue sighed. "Sting, I've got more scars on my chest."

Sting's eyes brightened so fast it took Rogue aback. The adoration on Sting's face did strange, curling things to his insides.

Despite his obvious enthusiasm, Sting was still tentative when he asked, "Can I see?"

Rogue's immediate answer would've been no—had it been anyone else. But after a moment, he slid his shirt over his head.

The cold air hit him and made his skin tingle with vulnerability. He hated this feeling, tried to avoid being shirtless when he could. Even when he showered, he stripped as fast as possible before diving under the water, because cool air reminded him too much of freezing nights without a jacket, beatings from older children, shame at how much his ribs showed. And it reminded him of the scars.

Closing his eyes, he straightened and swallowed, letting Sting see the map of his weaknesses. When Sting's fingers brushed over his stomach, he didn't flinch; he almost expected it. Nor did he mind the touch: those fingers were warm, the caress gentle, and this was _Sting_. Sting, out of all people, the one who got to see every part of him.

"You're really ripped," was Sting's first remark. Rogue heard him gulp and the sound was incredibly sexy. "Damn."

Opening his eyes, Rogue watched Sting trace a scar diagonally across his pec.

"You could definitely show off this body," Sting murmured.

Rogue jerked. "But scars!"

"Scars, scars," Sting parroted, and stripped his gloves off.

The tapestry of thick, interlocking lines on his forearms had a horrible, mesmerizing beauty. Rogue wanted to feel over every one, memorize each mark. It was Sting, and it was beautiful, because everything about Sting was beautiful.

"I've got scars too, Rogue. Everybody does."

"But you cover yours up," Rogue said, still staring, longing to grab Sting's arms and caress them and love them and make them feel good.

"I do because Lore asked me to." Sting rolled his eyes. "It hurts his delicate constitution or something. He's a pansy when it comes to blood. Otherwise, I'd bear these proudly."

"Really?" Rogue's mouth twisted. "The scars from your _traffickers?_"

"Who cares where they're from? I think they look wicked. What about you, Rogue? Are you embarrassed by my scars?"

"No!" Rogue exclaimed, shocked. "Of course not! I think you're gorgeous."

The word fell out before he could stop it. Tumbling between them. Loud, honest, strong.

"Yeah?" Happiness hitched on Sting's face.

Rogue swallowed. "Yes."

"That's how I think about you, too. I really like you, scars included."

"But…"

Rogue's voice came out plaintive. He wasn't sure what he was asking.

"Besides, the scars on your chest are small. I'm not trying to compare, but they're not ropey like these." Sting motioned at his arms. "They're more like shiny lines. It makes them kinda epic. I can't even feel them."

This time, Rogue was _not_ expecting the touch. Sting's sudden caress across his naked skin made him shiver, barely suppressing the low, pleasured growl that burst up through his chest. _Sting touching him._ It felt amazing. At the sound of Rogue's loud, shaky breath, their eyes met, both of them startled.

Recovering, Sting put his hands on either side of Rogue's face and led him in for another kiss.

Rogue melted against him. He couldn't argue with this, with Sting's tender kisses, which left his lips after a moment to trail down his neck. Trembling, Rogue felt that hot tongue suck at the base of his throat, his chest full of desperate joy. Rogue was a thousand points of light and he came apart under Sting's touches, needing, wanting, unable to move.

Sting's fingers slid feather-light over Rogue's stomach. Hands still at Sting's sides, Rogue gripped him, felt Sting's smooth skin, and dared to slip under the edge of Sting's high-cropped shirt. Sting let out a breathless groan.

The heated moment had both of them vibrating with energy, and it was Rogue who lowered Sting down, holding himself over Sting while trying not to focus on the fact that Sting's legs were open and if Rogue just leaned forward a little, he'd rub right over Sting's crotch…

"Sting," Rogue said over and over, between every kiss across that handsome face. "Sting, Sting…"

Sting took a shaky breath that had Rogue wanting to ravish him. He slid his teeth across Sting's chest, leaving twin lines behind, and Sting moaned and twisted his head from side to side.

"_Rogue._"

The word was solid on Sting's tongue. Filled with fire, just like everything else about Sting—in the same way Rogue was in love with him.

"Rogue," Sting repeated, his hands tugging at Rogue's hair, "why did you change your name?"

Rogue raised his face, sliding forward slowly until he was over Sting once more, just a breath away.

Not gauging the distance, he rubbed right over the bulge in Sting's trousers and both of them hissed, Rogue shutting his eyes and trying with everything he had not to start frotting hard and fast against him. He hurriedly backed up.

"I didn't want to be Rogue anymore," he stammered. "I wanted to be good enough for you."

Sting inhaled, the sound drawing Rogue's gaze.

"Fuck," Sting said, staring at him with something almost like shock. "I don't deserve you."

Rogue gaped. Sting's expression was _sad_ and there were tears pricking the corners of Sting's eyes again.

"Yes, you do; you so do." He kissed Sting's scarred arm where it leaned up caressing his head. "You've always been amazing. And learning your annoying side hasn't changed that."

Sting hiccough-laughed. Rogue rolled off him to the side, finding some relief in distancing himself from temptation and focusing on the man in front of him. Hands slid over Sting's chest, not exploratory but comforting, communicating.

"I love you more now than I did when I opened that box years ago," Rogue said.

The uncertainty winding through Sting's eyes made Rogue smile softly. He wasn't the only insecure one.

Wow. Sting was just like him. All this time, his angel…

"I love you just as much as then." Sting sniffed. "Because I already loved you one-hundred-percent before I knew who you were. I knew as soon as I saw you that you were the best person I'd ever met."

Gulping, Rogue leaned forward and kissed him with everything he had. His fingers dug into Sting's arms, his tongue found its way into Sting's mouth, and Sting writhed.

Then Sting was the one pushing him down, crawling over him and nibbling his ear.

"Sting," Rogue groaned. "Kiss me again."

"Okay," Sting breathed, brilliant and wild, and then his lips covered Rogue's and they were inseparable.

Rogue would never let go. Not with Sting.

* * *

**A/N:** Woot, it's done! This series is by no means over (next person to get romantic attention will be Gajeel). For a little while I'll be posting all the drabbles I've finished during the months of writing Last Place to Find Home and this fic. ^-^ Lots of gay pairings. Enjoy!


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